


The Holmes Vortex

by FuzzySlipper



Series: Bad Luck and The Brilliant [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221C Baker Street, American attempting British, Bounty Hunters, Crime Fighting, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Mid-season AU, Murder, Mycroft's Meddling, No Romance, Original Character-centric, Season/Series 03, Spoilers, slow start
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuzzySlipper/pseuds/FuzzySlipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bartender, Bounty Hunter . . . Bodyguard? This isn't what Aidan had in mind when she moved into 221C Baker Street. She had meant to just do her job while hiding from the people out to kill her, keeping both tasks secret from her housemates. A desperate compromise with Mycroft Holmes, however, changes all of this. Now she has to do her job, plus keep Sherlock safe--preferably without him knowing.</p><p> </p><p>Bad Luck and the Brilliant: The adventures of Aidan Mallory, having been dragged into the life of Sherlock Holmes. He's brilliant, and her surname literally means bad luck, with which her life has been filled until now. She's a puzzle, and we all know Sherlock loves puzzles, provided he has an audience. Well, he has at least one member, and she would rather appreciate not being solved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

### Chapter One

The first time she encountered him on the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes stole her cab. Granted, he was rather distracted and probably didn't even realize what he had done. Then again, maybe he did―he noticed everything, after all. But she didn't complain, and just hailed another. Getting upset would not help matters. Even later, in the months to come, she would still find this the best approach. The man was a force of nature, and would look at you like you were speaking nonsense if you tried to explain how stealing cabs was rude, and then he would do it again in a heartbeat.

She had no idea who he was, at the time, had not been in England to see the news in the papers. Tall, thin fellow with dark brown curls, long coat, and a dark blue scarf. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and- she couldn't tell what else, because he got into the cab too quickly for her to get a good look. He was alone, so after he got in he lost no time in closing the door and giving directions to the cabbie. Then she got into her own cab, which answered her hail, and set her duffle bag on the floor by her feet. All that she owned, or had seen the sense in owning for the past several years.

“221 Baker Street, please,” she said, sitting back. The cabbie pulled away from the curb, and she turned to the window to watch London go past.

. . . ... . . .

Her knock on the door reading 221B echoed slightly, and she figured that a hall lay beyond. Women’s shoes tapped on the floor—flats, she guessed, listening close—and then the door opened. An elderly woman blinked down at her on the steps, but gave a welcoming smile. “Hello, dear. Can I help you? I'm afraid Sherlock's gone out, so if you’re looking for him there’s no telling when he’ll show up.”

Aidan found herself thrown by the comment, but supposed her lack of forewarning would cause the landlady to suspect her to be visiting one of her tenants. This Sherlock must have lots of visitors, in that case. “Yes, actually,” she answered, pushing ahead despite her confusion. “I’m looking for Mrs. Hudson, in fact. Are you her?”

It was the other woman's turn to be surprised now. “Yes, I am. Oh, forgive my manners. Please, please, come in. Would you like a cuppa?”

She smiled and nodded, stepping in after the woman and closing the door behind her. “Tea would be lovely, thank you. I'm Aidan Mallory, by the way. I was wondering, were you still interested in renting out your basement flat? 221C, I believe it was.”

Mrs. Hudson paused at the door of her flat and turned to face her guest. “Why, yes. Although, I must warn you that it's not in a good state.”

Aidan shook her head, causing her blonde bob to brush her chin as strands came loose from behind her ear. “That's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. I just want a place to sleep for as long as I can rent it, and I don’t particularly want to share with anybody. I can work at fixing it up in my free time, even.”

The landlady led her into her own flat and got busy fixing the tea. “If you can do that, the rent would be even cheaper, I think, for you. I must say, that place having an occupant is appealing. I must warn you, however, that Sherlock keeps very odd hours upstairs. I have no doubt that you would be able to hear his violin being played at four in the morning—thank heavens John took his pistol with him, or that would be going off, too, the way Sherlock gets in his boredom. I must also warn you that his experiments are quite…unorthodox.”

Aidan smiled as she accepted her cup and shrugged. “I'd have to experience it firsthand of course, but I'm fairly certain that it wouldn't bother me too much. What on earth does he do?”

“Well, he's a detective of sorts, you see.” Mrs. Hudson settled down into the chair across from her and smiled. “Consulting detective, he calls it. He helped me out some years ago, making certain that my husband faced his execution in America.”

The young woman was glad she had swallowed her sip of tea as she nearly choked, and lowered her cup to stare at her host in disbelief. A few seconds later, she processed the information and chuckled. “You seem quite fond of him. I have no doubt your late husband was not a pleasant fellow, to have that fate. Well then, at least I'll not have to be worried about my housemate's profession.”

“Oh, don't you worry, dear. Dr. Watson, his former flatmate, keeps him in line a bit. Those two are so good for each other. He's married now, so he and his wife Mary will be popping in every now and then. You’d love them, wonderful people.”

Aidan grinned. “I look forward to meeting these Watsons, then. So, what would I be paying for the flat?”

“Let's finish our tea, then I'll take you down to see it. You should probably examine the place before we decide on an agreeable price. How did you hear of it, by the way? I've not put an advert in the papers for quite a while.”

She sipped her tea as she thought that through. It was rather complicated, and it always took her a bit to get it straight in her mind. “Well, through rather roundabout channels, actually. Apparently Mrs. Turner told Ms. Johnson, who told Mrs. Phillips, who told her husband, who told his niece, who works with a friend of mine, who told me. So Mrs. Turner, Ms. Johnson, Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Phillips, Joyce, Kyle, me.” Another sip of the tea, and the cup was empty. Seeing the vaguely flabbergasted look Mrs. Hudson had on, Aidan grinned. “I told you it was roundabout.”

“Goodness, dear. You don't do things by halves, do you?”

Aidan laughed. “Not really, no.”

Mrs. Hudson finished her tea and set her cup down. “Well, let's go show you. Mind the steps, they're a little creaky.”

Excellent, an early warning system of sorts. And, indeed, they did creak as the two women went down to the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson opened the bottom door, and Aidan beheld the barrenness of the place she was considering to have as her new home, of sorts.

She could see why Mrs. Hudson had been worried. 221C was not quite a dump, but it wasn't anywhere near in prime condition, either. It could use a good renovation, for which neither of them had the money. The wallpaper was torn away where it had been peeling, the painted walls were stained from dirt, and the carpet was a few shades darker than it had been originally. It was clear that attempts had been made at cleaning up the place, but one could only do so much, especially an older woman with a hip problem. The smell of must hung in the air, and had Aidan any other choice she might have changed her mind about the place. Of course, she didn't, so she accepted the signs of damp and started thinking about how she could fix it. 

Aidan peered around the nearly empty flat and took note of the second-hand appliances, bedroom furnishings, and kitchen table. There was no other furniture in the place, but that was fine and could be fixed over time. She would have a bed, dresser, table, fridge, oven, microwave, and toaster, and that was more than enough for her. She had lived in worse conditions, and had suffered through having none of those amenities once. It was not an experience she would soon forget, not the least what had come with that.

She would buy a cheap chair, of course, so she could have a place to sit. She would get a wooden one, but it needed to be able to go in the cab with her when she bought it. A folding chair, then, would have to do. And she would get a mattress protector and bedding for her room, plus some basic foodstuffs for the kitchen. She would also need some pots and pans, and the necessary cooking utensils―she figured she could wait on those and borrow from her new neighbors in the meantime―along with some cheap dishes and plastic or silverware. Cups, too, would be nice; just some thin plastic ones would do until she had the money to properly stock her kitchen. Yes, a few cleaning supplies on the get-go, and she would be just fine in this place.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting patiently for her as she tested the faucets and poked at the nooks and crannies. Having finished her exploration, Aidan returned to her prospective landlady and nodded. “The damp won't bug me, and I'll see what I can do to fix it. What were you hoping to rent it out for?”

The old woman spread her hands. “To be quite honest, I hadn't ever thought that I would be able to rent it out, especially in this state. And since you're such a nice and wonderful young woman, willing to put up with this place, I'll give you a low price on it all.” They discussed costs for a while, smoothing out all the details of the lease. At the end of it all, Aidan stood in Mrs. Hudson's flat again with the contract set before her, pen held above the signatory line in a moment of hesitation. 

Her hand trembled briefly as she stared at the document. Was she willing to commit to this? A place of her own; a neighbor and his friends she could be acquaintances with; a landlady toward whom she already felt affection; roots that would grow and grow, making it hard and painful to tear away from should all go south. Could she really take that chance, let herself become close to all of this?

The signature she scrawled wavered not an iota. The prospect made her nervous, yes, but why let that win out?

Mrs. Hudson placed Aidan's copies of her keys into her hand. “Here you are, dear. This one unlocks the front door, and this other one unlocks your flat's door. Do you need help with any luggage? I can't help you, myself―my hip, you see―but I'm sure John would be quite willing to help you if he is here. Sherlock, not so much.”

Aidan shook her head and smiled. “Thanks, but no. It's just this bag for now, but I'll go shopping right away and get some things for the flat. Most of it will have to wait until I have more money. I'm sure you understand. Though, more than one chair will have to wait.”

The landlady went to file the papers away. “Well, if you ever need to borrow something, just come knock on my door. In fact, you're welcome to use my kitchen until you get your own supplies. And the top floor is for storage, so I should have a couple chairs buried away when you get the time.”

The smile turned into a genuine grin. She might have been leery about forming connections, but she wasn't about to stop this now. “Thanks, ma'am. I just might take you up on that offer. Could you perhaps tell me what shops are around here?”

Mrs. Hudson shooed her away. “You go put that in your rooms, then come back here. I'll have a list all written up for you. Do you have a way of looking up directions?”

“Yeah, I can look up maps on my iPhone. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You have got to be the best landlady ever.”

The woman blushed at her praise, and the beaming grin with which she delivered it. “It's nothing, dear. You're practically a breath of fresh air compared to Sherlock. Speaking of which, no sense in waiting around for him. There's no telling when those boys will get back.”

Aidan laughed and picked up her duffel bag. “I'll just go put this away, then. See you in a jif'.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is an AU, deviating after "A Sign of Three," I have made a timeline of events to show where everything falls and where "His Last Vow" now occurs. I have a sequel in mind for after I finish this one, and I made sure to include it in this timeline. 
> 
> Canon Timeline:  
>  _-November 3, 2013—Sherlock reveals himself to John._  
>  _-November 4, 2013—John almost killed in Guy Fawkes day bonfire_  
>  _-November 5, 2013—bombing of Parliament stopped_  
>  _-May, 2014—John and Mary become husband and wife; Major Sholto’s life is saved_  
>  _-Christmas, 2014, Sherlock kills Magnussen_
> 
> Altered Timeline:  
>  _-November 3, 2013—Sherlock reveals himself to John._  
>  _-November 4, 2013—John almost killed in Guy Fawkes day bonfire_  
>  _-November 5, 2013—bombing of Parliament stopped_  
>  _-May, 2014—John and Mary become husband and wife; Major Sholto’s life is saved; Mary is not pregnant_  
>  _-September, 2014—Aidan arrives in England_  
>  _-[redacted]_  
>  _-Christmas 2014—Sherlock deduces Mary is pregnant; [redacted]_  
>  _-[redacted]_  
>  _-Mid Feb, 2015—Magnussen comes onto the scene_  
>  _-April, Easter, 2015—Sherlock kills Magnussen, sequel begins_
> 
> I will go ahead and state this now, the events of "His Last Vow" will not be included in "The Holmes Vortex", and will only serve as a jumping off point for the sequel, to be titled "A Mallory's Luck".


	2. Chapter 2

### Chapter Two

“Mrs. Hudson, I'm back now!” Aidan called out as she opened the front door to 221 Baker Street, guessing that her landlady would appreciate a heads up. It had been a long afternoon scouring the closest Primark and Tescos to find the bulk of what she needed—basic foodstuffs, bedding, plastic dinnerware, warmer clothes—and even longer to track down her folding chair at a different shop because that Primark didn’t have one. Then she had to fit it all into the cab, and she could almost feel her wallet smarting after that trip. Hopefully Mike would have a good job for her, because if this was just what the basic necessities cost…

She said nothing more, but returned to the bottom of the steps where she had left her purchases, wondering if she could manage to bring it all inside in one go. She had gotten it all to the cab okay, though that was a close thing. But all she needed to do was get it inside, she could carry it all down in stages once that was done. So she loaded her arms with the loops of plastic bags, snagged the leg of her chair with her right hand, and straightened to go inside.

Aidan clamped down on her instinct to jump or go for her taser as she stopped short, trying her hardest not to drop her purchases after having spent long enough getting a grasp on them. The man who had stolen her cab that morning stood in the doorway, sans the coat and scarf, and he was watching her with a dark, calculating gaze. He was almost primly dressed in a sharp, expensive charcoal gray suit that matched the quality of the Belstaff coat he had worn and set off a powder blue shirt on which he had left his collar undone. His eyes, cold and sharp and an even paler blue, seemed to stare past whatever masks she could conjure. Not that she was interested in conjuring any masks at the moment; she would much rather get her things into her flat than invite more scrutiny from the man who could only be Sherlock Holmes.

She cleared her throat when he didn't move after several moments. “Excuse me, please,” she said, resisting any urge to get annoyed. _Be a nice new neighbor, that's it. Be polite enough to let him forget about you, but not too polite or impolite enough to make him irritated._

If anything, her request seemed to make him settle just a little bit more into the doorway. “Who are you?” he asked, scowling.

The beleaguered woman sighed and put everything on the ground again. It was clear that she wouldn't be getting past right away, not until she answered his questions or Mrs. Hudson came to rescue her. “Name's Aidan. You?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You're a bartender, or at least that's what I can deduce from your hands. You haven't done it for a while, though, so you've been out of a job. No pets, and you're carrying a taser―small, personal model―in that large left pocket of yours. You also know some form of hand-to-hand combat. So you're security conscious, been taught how to take care of yourself. Your income is very unsteady, with periods of higher and lower paychecks―those trousers of yours are bought second-hand, but that jacket was custom-made and built to last. That iPhone, too, is not cheaply come by. That hair of yours isn't naturally blonde, it was black and is bleached and dyed. You wear contacts, too, but have never worn glasses… You're new to London, you haven't even settled into a flat yet. New job then, fresh start, completely new you. Trying to get away. Something happened, and you left America quickly. Estranged from your family and friends, no doubt. Good control of your temper, I will give you that. And there's something else…” His brow furrowed, his scowl deepening. “Have you ever worked in law enforcement?”

Aidan blinked. When did he find the time to breathe? “Never been a police officer or federal agent, no. A friend is, not me.”

“Hmm. American, but born to British parents who had a thing for uncommon names. An older sibling or two, but you are not in contact. You don't really know Mrs. Hudson, though you've known of her. You did, in fact, meet her this morning. Extra cup for tea in her sink, several hours old. A mention that someone would be by later, and that I was to be on my best behavior. She likes you, but it's more than that. A flat―you've moved into the basement.” He straightened, becoming even more intense. “Are moving. You wanted to meet me, but don't want to be remembered by me. Your posture says it all, and the way you speak. You're not just polite on purpose, oh no. It's deliberate, controlled. You've been warned about me, and have deduced just enough to be able to gauge how much would make me remember you by insufferable civility. Had I not been performing this autopsy, of sorts, I might have even missed it. Bravo, you are a clever one. Not likely a criminal, your comments to Mrs. Hudson have spoken to that as you have stuck around. You're desperate for a place to live, seeing as you've rented 221C―Mrs. Hudson has tried and failed due to the damp to rent that place out. Only a desperate man or woman would rent it. And you want privacy, since you don't want John's upstairs room which would force you to share a kitchen with me. So you have a job, bar tending most likely, and you needed a place to move in right away. Nothing to your name but the clothes on your back and the items now in the dresser drawers, plus those things at your feet. So you really don't care where you live, as long as you can afford a roof over your head and a bed to sleep in. And you're confident, very confident, since despite all warnings about me you are still moving in.”

This was all said with only the occasional brief pause for breath, only one wait for her to answer his question. He looked a bit bored, delivering it all at a brisk speed and not much variance in tone to start with. He did seem to get a little more intrigued as he went along, and seemed almost puzzled by her at the end. Clearly done and waiting for her answer, he brought back the scowl and crossed his arms.

Aidan clapped, a little softly and at a slower pace than genuine applause would merit. “Well done. I see how you can be a consulting detective, you really are quite good. No mention of my stubborn independence?”

“It hardly needs mentioning. You let the cabbie help only enough to get the bags out of the car, but you didn't want help carrying anything in. No, that's not it. You don't trust him enough to let him in. Have you been reading John's blog?”

She shook her head and smirked. “No, I just don't trust easily, though I make an exception for Mrs. Hudson. She comes pre-approved, of course. Friend of a friend of a friend, and all that. Can I come in, now? You're blocking the door, and I have milk to put in my fridge.”

Sherlock stepped back, then looked suspicious. “When did Mrs. Hudson get a fridge for that flat?”

“You're asking me? Ask the one who bought it, and the other appliances. I don't suppose I could get you to carry my chair or something?”

Surprisingly, he walked down the steps and picked up the requested item, and the bag with her milk. “So not too proud to ask for help. I see it now. And I should have deduced that from Mrs. Hudson's list that she gave you earlier. Did I get anything else wrong?”

The smile Aidan answered him with was bitter. “Little brother. I have an older sister, but I also have a little brother.” He had missed some other facts aside from this, but she was more inclined to keep them a secret, given what truths lay behind the walls she was attempting to build before Sherlock's deductions. Instead, it would be easier to let him think what he did. Aidan would deal with the day he found out when it came. Until then, it was not a problem. For now, it would be best to let his other mistake be a red herring.

He sighed. “It's always something. Come on, then, hurry up. I have an experiment to get back to. What's your last name?”

Right, she hadn't included that bit, had she? Well, he'd find out regardless, so she might as well tell him now. “Mallory,” she said. “Look me up if you want, but you won't find anything interesting. I'm nobody from nowhere, and would rather much appreciate it if you _didn't_ go digging with my family.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course not. I know all I need or want to, just from my observations.”

Even if that was ridiculously arrogant and overconfident, Aidan wasn't going to argue. He had agreed not to look into her background―at least she thought he had―and pressing the matter would only make him curious.

He didn't wait, but led the way into the house at a pace she made no attempt to match. Inside the house, she caught sight of a man coming down the steps, former military by the looks of him. Sandy blonde, also with blue eyes―though his were not quite as light or gray as the dark-haired giant in front of her. He was just below average height, though standing next to Sherlock made him look shorter. Even then, when he stepped up to them, she could see how the two friends―and they were definitely friends, going by their demeanors―subtracted nothing from the other by way of stature and bearing. Quiet, unassuming, but deadly in a pinch, the shorter man was definitely one who would make you regret underestimating him. 

She could definitely grow to like this Dr. Watson, if she let herself.

As he approached, he saw her armload of bags and reached out to take some from her. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Oh, thanks.” Aidan smiled. Yet another point towards the man. “You must be Dr. Watson.”

“John, please. How did you know?”

“Well, with what Mrs. Hudson has mentioned, who else could you be? You're certainly not the eccentric one.”

John choked back a laugh, and the subject of their conversation rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, that's certainly a good word to use for Sherlock. Where to with these?”

“Downstairs,” the detective cut in, sounding annoyed. “She's Mrs. Hudson's new renter, do keep up.”

“Sorry about him, uh…”

“Aidan Mallory. Just call me Aidan, please, not Ms. Mallory. I get enough of that already from people at the bank, and if your friend is to be my neighbor then I'd rather you call me by something more personal. I'm sure you understand.”

“Quite right. Anyway, sorry about Sherlock, Aidan. He wasn't too rude, I hope?”

Aidan followed the rapidly departing Sherlock toward the basement. “Gave a running commentary on me, but it was quite fascinating and not as invasive in his telling and his guesses as it could have been. I take it he's always like this.”

“Goodness, yes. Just don't encourage him, please. He doesn't need the ego boost.”

“Trust me, I've dealt with worse.” And she had, at that. Reaching her door, she rolled her eyes at the impatience her tall new neighbor displayed. After unlocking it, she allowed him to go down the stairs first, and he swept down like a burst of wind. Inside the flat itself, she watched as he wrinkled his nose at the room's condition and promptly ignored the gesture. “Thank you for carrying that down, Mr. Holmes. You can head back to your experiment if you'd like.”

“Sherlock,” he answered, peering down his nose at her. “As you say, we are to be neighbors.” He didn't actually seem to care what she called him, but she appreciated the permission to use his given name. He didn't seem interested in going anywhere either, so Aidan supposed he was curious what she had done with the flat. Well, she doubted he would be surprised at its lack of anything, based on his earlier statements and her having only just moved in. 

She put her bags on the floor by the kitchen. Sherlock breezed past to look around, and John followed her. “No chairs yet?” He sounded sympathetic, but not pitying, and Aidan guessed that he knew how it went. His clothes were a far cry from being as expensive as what his friend wore, but they were functional and looked comfortable, easy to move in.

Aidan grinned, and nodded to the folding chair that Sherlock had put on the carpet. “One. I'll deal with furniture after the place gets fixed up, and Mrs. Hudson said there might be something in the attic. Right now I'm happy to have a bed and a fridge to go with the shower and toilet. Here, let me sort through those. I'm sure you know what the place looks like, and it's not much yet, so a tour can wait.”

“Didn't really look much last time I was in here, actually, though I think it was worse off than this. We were all focused on the pair of shoes the possibly insane criminal mastermind had placed… Right there, actually.”

He suddenly seemed to regret what he had just said, lowering his pointing finger, but she just laughed. “Yes, well. I'll have to take a look at your blog that Sherlock mentioned.”

“Sherlock mentioned my blog?”

“Asked if I had been reading it.” Kneeling on the floor, she started going through her bags. “Something about cabbies? He stole my cab this morning, actually.”

Having returned to the living room, Sherlock turned to face her, distracted from whatever musings he had. “Did I?”

“It was near the train station.” She looked up, having moved the milk jug to the side. “You really didn't notice, did you?”

“Should I have?” He waved a hand, dismissing the matter. “You got here, on any count. And you're not angry with me, so you don't really care.”

Aidan snorted. “I may not be mad at you, or even annoyed, but for someone so observant you were unusually absent-minded in that. Or is it that _you_ just don't care?”

“He just doesn't care,” John answered for his friend. 

“I was busy.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I had a lead, and I was chasing it down. And because of that, I caught a killer. You know that, John, you were there. Must I explain everything?”

“You usually do. It's the curse of having such a sharp mind.”

Aidan picked up her cold foodstuffs and carried it to the dismal kitchen before any sort of annoyed response could be made in what seemed to be an old, oft repeated argument. She didn't really care why he had taken her cab, and she would rather not get involved in their detective business. She had enough problems of her own without getting dragged into theirs. 

John's footsteps followed her into the kitchen, and she half-turned at the fridge to smile at him. “Thanks for the help, really. It would have been a nightmare carrying all those bags down, or even just unlocking my door without dropping any.”

“No problem. I understand, I really do. Used to have to use a cane, and carrying the groceries with that was a pain.” He smirked, then, and his next words explained the expression. “You know, if you ever want some company, feel free to bug him all you like. He can use more people who don't mind how he is, though he's gotten a bit better. Though you might want to text me first to see if Mary or I are over. Sherlock can be…temperamental around most people.” The doctor shrugged, looking a little embarrassed for his friend.

Aidan shrugged in return. “I've dealt with worse than him, I think. But I'll take your advice, should I ever decide to come calling.” If she would, she had yet to decide. But they swapped numbers, John giving her Sherlock's as well just in case, and Aidan went back to her task.

He stood there for a moment, a bit awkwardly going by the shifting of his weight from left to right, apparently knowing she'd rather do this on her own. “Well, then,” he finally said. “I'll let you get to it. It was a pleasure meeting you, Aidan. I suppose I'll be seeing you around.”

She spared him a wave in farewell as he went, and paused to listen for any sign of Sherlock's presence. After putting the last of her groceries away, a quick check of the flat revealed that the detective had gone, probably while John had been talking to her in the kitchen. Satisfied, Aidan closed the door at the top of the stairs and locked it with a pleasant _click_.


	3. Chapter 3

### Chapter Three

Aidan clapped remnants of dust from her hands after a quick brush down of the cobwebs clinging to the corners and went back to her bedroom. She had quite the conundrum before her. Sherlock Holmes thought she was a bartender, but would doubtless find out about her true profession sooner rather than later. Though, what sense was there in making it easy on him? She wasn't here on vacation, after all, and being noticed was the last thing she needed. And she would definitely rather not be noticed by him.

Should she, then, carry her Glock with her? She was not dealing with mere civilians, after all. But she had to get to work, and a taser wouldn't cut it, not on its own. So the gun it was, then. But how? Shoulder holster? Tucked into the back of her jeans, beneath her jacket? She didn’t have a holster yet, and so the latter held promise for now―at least until she could come up with a plausible explanation for carrying a weapon that would fulfill Sherlock's insatiable need to know.

Back of the jeans it was, then, after removing the weapon from her hiding spot she had made by taping an envelope of sorts above the inside of the closet door. She'd figure things out later. Bar job in a bad part of town, perhaps. Michael could help her cook up some sort of cover story, perhaps, with a special license for carrying this. Did they make those? She really needed to look up London's gun laws… She had an actual permit for carrying, what with her line of work, but she didn't want her housemates to find out right away. There was no telling how problematic that would or wouldn't be.

Mrs. Hudson was in the entry hall when she came up the inside steps, dusting away. “Oh, Aidan, dear. Going out? I'll be making dinner for myself in a couple hours if you'd like to join me.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Aidan gave her an honest smile. “I'm off to work, actually, so I'll be back late, I think. Don't wait up, I'll see you in the morning.”

“All right, then.” Mrs Hudson shooed her off with her duster. “You'd best get on, then, if you don't want to be late. Be careful, now.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” Aidan grinned and waved goodbye. 

A cab answered her hail readily enough, and she got inside, but only after sending a parting wave to the upstairs window. If John or Sherlock saw her wave, fine; if they didn't, Mrs. Hudson could tell them what she had gone of to do. Not even sparing the thought of sending a text―she didn't know any of her housemates that well, after all, so why should she bother?―she directed the cabbie downtown. This was not her final destination, of course, but habit had long since been ingrained in her, despite how much it hurt the wallet sometimes. Disappearing amongst the crowds, she slipped down to the Tube and took it over to the next station. Once there, she grabbed another cab and sent it toward a less wealthy part of town, away from the CCTV cameras that seemed to be shadowing her. On a deserted street that was absent of those cameras, she paid her cabbie and went in search of another. This time, she managed to find one without being in view of any spying lenses.

The building she finally disembarked at was all graffitied brick and boarded windows, dressed its best for the purpose it held. She stepped inside, studying the dim and musty wooden corridor that led to a set of double doors illuminated by a pair of white lamps, before which a man in a black suit and tie stepped out to meet her. Knowing what was expected, Aidan pulled her wallet from her jacket and held it out. Scanning her ID, the bouncer nodded her through and she opened the doors. 

A large, well-kept room greeted her, circular tables scattered throughout, a long bar set up on one side of the place. Most of the wall space was dedicated to monitors displaying local and foreign news, and to the several dozen wanted posters of bounties from ranks D through A and S. At the tables sat mixed gatherings of men and women, just a couple teenagers here and there, all conversing about any leads they could offer one another, or just relaxing after a job well done. None were obviously armed, no more than she was. Sweepers―bounty hunters―weren't at all flamboyant sorts, despite any rumors to that degree. You had to be good at it to last long in this career choice, either financially or physically, and showing off tended to hinder more than help. The cops appreciated the help on occasion, which was sanctioned individually by the International Bureau of Investigations. That was more of a fancy title, really, than an indication of anything too useful. If the IBI had anything going for them, it was that they had jurisdiction in all cooperating nations, and their licensed Sweepers could go anywhere. Of course, she never spoke too badly of them, except in a teasing sense, for she knew several good men and women who served as agents. 

The man who stood behind the bar looked more like a wrestler than a bartender, built large and tough with a shining scalp and a grizzly black full beard. His dark eyes were sharp, his body scarred, but despite his otherwise intimidating appearance a broad grin had stretched itself out upon that fearsome visage. “Mallory! I didn't expect you in here until day after next.”

Aidan vaulted the bar, ignoring other avenues of passage, and allowed him to sweep her into a gigantic bear hug. “Long time, Mike. Yeah, I managed to sort out accommodations earlier than I thought, and I decided to come from Carmarthen earlier than planned.”

“Good for you.” Michael Yates thumped her on the back when he let go of her, but she stood her ground instead of stumbling. “Isaacs know you're here?”

She stiffened for a moment, then sighed and shook her head. “I told you the situation. Of course he doesn't.”

“Hmm.” He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Right, then. My office?”

She followed him back, smiling at fond memories. This wasn't her first time in London, she had been here once before for a month, three years ago. In that time, she had met and become good friends with the man who ran the city's Sweeper Club. When the time had come to return, to drop off the face of the planet for most everyone in her life, she had called Mike, knowing he would keep her presence quiet, even from Sam. 

Mike seemed to notice the way she eyed the cameras, as if they were a snake ready to bite her. “Don't worry, they're a closed system. You know we like to keep things in-house. Nah, your real worry is the CCTV cameras in town.”

“Speaking of those, they've been stalking me today.” Aidan frowned. “Any idea why?”

The bartender closed the door to his office after Aidan had stepped inside, then went to sit in a cushioned chair on the other side of the room from his desk. Aidan sat in the one facing him and waited for an answer, knowing if anyone could give her one it would be this man. 

Mike considered the problem, and leaned back in his chair and scratched through his beard at his left cheek. “I'm not sure. I can hijack the feed and the controls, as you know, but I didn't even know you'd be here. You don't need to worry about Alders in this case, there hasn't been a peep from him outside of the States. If I had to guess, I'd say someone in the government was…” He sat up, straight as a flagpole and with all the stiffness of rigor mortis. “Aidan, where did you move in? You said you had a list of a hundred or so places to choose from; which London address did you pick?”

Aidan blinked. “221 Baker Street, why?”

Mike barked out in laughter and collapsed into his chair. “A housemate of Sherlock Holmes. I should've known. I'd wish you luck, but I know you don't believe in it. Besides, it wouldn't do you much good. Well, that solves that mystery.”

“Why, who's been spying on me?” Aidan scowled when he didn't answer. “Mike…”

“Oh, don't you worry. You'll find out soon, I'd say. Oh, this is precious.” He grinned at her, eyes glittering in amusement. “Trust me, if it's who I think it is then you can handle him. I've got no authority to counter him, and we can't involve Isaacs or he'll know where you are. And I don't trust anyone else with you. But you're stubborn, and you've got a clean record. The nosy bastard just might like you.”

Aidan rolled her eyes. “I'm glad you're enjoying this. Speaking of Sherlock, I need to be sure I'm tending bar at least a couple hours every night so that I'm not lying when I carry out his deduction about me.”

Mike's eyebrows skyrocketed. “He doesn't know you're a Sweeper?”

“No, oddly enough. He knows I know martial arts, but he decided I'm a bartender and then asked if I was in law enforcement. I told him I'm not a police officer or federal agent, and that was the end of that. Sure, I do tend bar on occasion, but I need to be doing it regularly. He'll get suspicious otherwise.”

He shook his head. “Wonder of wonders. Everyone knows what the man's brain is like, and that he's usually right about everything with one or two small exceptions in each character summation. But that's pretty big.”

“I'll run with it for now, regardless. I'm not passing up this opportunity. So, can I?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mike stood and went to his desk, grabbing a schedule from the mess of papers. “So, two hours each time, hmm? Early evening all right with you, from five to seven? And we'll give you the cover story of running down leads for the Sweepers, so that'll be why you carry a weapon and why you aren't in the bar most of the time. All the fun happens after dark, anyhow.”

Aidan thought that over. “That will work. Thanks, Mike, you're awesome.”

“I know.” Mike grinned, and winked at her. “All right, let's go refresh your bar tending skills. We don't get many fancy drinks called for, here, but you should familiarize yourself with the brands at least. I'll find you some easy bounties to start out with, and you can bring them to the city police. New Scotland Yard is where that new housemate of yours visits, so if you go anywhere else you shouldn't have to worry about being discovered. And for the love of life, do try and keep from blowing anything up, this time.”

She snorted. “That was hardly my fault. Marsden made the bomb and installed it, not me. I evacuated everyone, you'll recall, before he set it off. I was already on my way to him when the place exploded.”

“Whatever. Catch your bounties a little faster next time, will you? I had Scotland Yard calling, and had IBI agents and British government officials complaining to me all day.”

“I evacuated everyone,” Aidan repeated—and spent some time in the hospital from the burns and abrasions she acquired from being just a bit too close to the blast. Marsden himself had been even closer, and the shockwave snapped his neck against a car. “Why so much fuss? It's not as if it was Downing Street.”

“No, but it was the home of a very important man in the British government. Or a second home, at least. Fortunately for all of us, it wasn't the family mansion.”

Aidan stuck her tongue out and grinned cheekily. “Next time I'm chasing a bomber, then, I'll put the building before the people, shall I?”

Mike sighed, but gave in to his laughter. “You're nuts, you are. If you weren't trying to lay low, I'd worry about what havoc you would wreak upon the city. As it is, though . . .” He smirked, and opened his office door to lead her out. “I do so look forward to seeing how you get on with Holmes. It's going to be an interesting time, I think. Come on, we shouldn't leave Potts alone too long, he's still a little new. I'll get you your gear later.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment Replies:
> 
> sherlockstea-- I am aware it is a boy's name, and it was a deliberate move on my part. I was scrolling through behindthename.com in the English names category, and rather liked it for her. I don't know that I would actually be able to change it now, since she's been Aidan in my head for many months and to me it just seems to suit her, somehow. I guess my reasoning was that if boys and girls can be named/called Taylor or Alex or even a whole slew of other names I would normally associate with either just male or female and not both, it's not as big a step to take a masculine name and give it to a woman. I myself am a woman with a name spelling that is typically masculine, so I suppose I just don't notice the difference as much. Thank you for commenting, and I hope that the name doesn't feel too distracting further on if you continue reading. :-)

### Chapter Four

9:35pm found her in a skate park decorated with the art of the street, a lurid splash of colors that dominated everything. All around her, the wheels of skateboards rattled along the concrete, clattering upon the landings: _Shoop, kssssssh._ The boards spun in air, kissed rubber soles in a searing embrace, and said farewell for a short time as they soared free. Bikes―shiny, rusty, short and tall―played along in the endless game of “Who's the better dancer?”

Through this all, Aidan walked. She had come here alone, on foot, searching for whatever lead she could scrounge up. She had learned years ago that the best places for information were the bars and the streets, and that the young and old who frequented these places were better than any other source by far. They and the homeless were the eyes and ears of the city, the information network. And as she passed the territory markings and the occasional slander, the place seemed to enfold her in its embrace. This was her element, not a fancy office or folding jeans in a shop. Her workplace was the streets. They were her gym, her cubicle, her backyard. 

Aidan stopped by a boy, mid-teens and middle-class by the look of him, and waited until he finished tying his shoes. “Hey, I'm looking for Luke. You see him around, lately?”

The kid looked up at her, studying her appearance, then nodded sharply. “He's over by the ramp with Benson. You know what he looks like?”

“Yeah, we've met a few times. Thanks.”

She left him to return to the rails and headed in the direction of the ramp the kid spoke of. It was one of several in the underground park, but it was definitely the most prominent and decorated. Red and yellow seemed to be the main colors on the rough canvas, but the entirety was dull and faded with wear.

Luke Spurling, one of her old contacts from the last time she was in London, glanced over as she approached and did a double-take. “Nicky?”

Aidan winced. “Don't call me that,” she said, feeling the rote of her response moving her lips for her. It wasn’t quite the normal exchange, but close enough. “How've you been, Luke?”

“Not bad. Ah, Benson, this is Nic.” The tall young man waved a hand in her general direction and shrugged his broad shoulders. He had grown up in her time away, and was no longer a small scraggly kid with a shredded ego. Now he was taller than Sherlock, even, though still quite the beanpole. “She comes to us for info, sometimes. Sweeper, you know. Nic, bud of mine, Benson. His mum works with Scotland Yard.”

Aidan and Benson shook hands. “Good to meet you, Benson.”

“Yeah. Good to meet you, too.” Benson was about a foot shorter than his towering friend, who stood 6'8”, but that did nothing to diminish his own stature. He wasn't wiry by any means, but was all lean muscle and unassuming, quiet power. His hands were callused and scarred, indicating that they were used quite heavily, and his handshake spoke of denser bones and joints which in turn spoke of fighting. Not Tae Kwon Do, not Kung Fu, not boxing…and not Karate, either, by the way he held himself. Fascinating. Well, with a mother in law enforcement he wasn't likely to have automatically gone for something obvious. 

He withdrew his hand, and she blinked as he stepped back again. Something obscure that predominantly used feet, if she read the body language right. Whatever it was, it was a good choice, and it looked like he had trained his body well for it. 

Luke crossed his pale arms, completely the opposite of his friend with his gangly build. Despite this, Aidan knew he was a fast sprinter, and that the Parkour skills belied by his thin arms enabled his getaways even more. “You're not here for pleasure,” he said, and Aidan smiled. He was shrewd, and could easily tell when certain things were going on by watching body language as she did. 

“No, I'm not,” she answered. “C-Rank. The name is Bishop Palmer, and he's wanted for armed robbery. He was last sighted in Sutton, heading toward central London. Bounty's a thousand, and if you get me the lead I need you will receive two hundred from that, one-fifty each if it's the both of you together. You have my number, call when you have the info.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket and passed it over. “Here's the poster. Take a good look.”

They looked, and she let them study the mark's appearance and provided information. When they were done, she took the poster back and tucked it away. Another look at Benson's hands, and she smiled. “Luke, here, teaching you how to be a traceur?”

Benson nodded, features a bit tight as he watched her. “Yeah, and I'm teaching him some defense techniques.”

“Good, very good.” Aidan nodded to the both of them and took a step away. “Give me a call when you find anything. Nice to meet you, Benson.”

They said farewell and she walked back toward the waning daylight. It had taken her longer than she had thought to find Luke, and though the twilight lingered she knew it would be truly dark in a couple hours. If she wanted an easier time of searching, she had better get on her way now, before the streetlights made recognizing a face difficult. 

Her phone, set to vibrate, buzzed before she was halfway down the street. It was from Mike, she saw, and the message that followed set a pep to her steps as she changed direction for the nearest Tube station.

_New tip: BP sighted in E Lond._

She forwarded the text to Luke, an old number saved in her phone for this occasion, figuring his help could be useful and wouldn't be too risky for him at the moment. If he didn't actually approach the guy then he shouldn't encounter too much trouble, in theory, and Benson could help the two of them stay safe. The odds, she could say, were enough in the boys' favor that she didn't automatically write off any idea of their aid.

Then Aidan stopped, frowning at the black car parked on the curb in front of her, right where she would have crossed the road. The single security camera on the intersection blinked off, she noticed with trepidation, and then a woman stepped out of the car. 

She did nothing, said nothing, but merely stood there with the door open beside her. Her expression was blank, but not forbidding, and something like amusement twinkled in corners of her dark eyes. Aidan stared for a long moment then, with a sigh, took the silent invitation and got in the vehicle.

The woman entered the car after her, closing the door which in turn gave the signal for the driver to pull away from the curb. A hand dipped slowly, open in its movements, into a jacket pocket and removed a cell phone with a sliding keyboard, and Aidan forced herself to relax a bit. Her weapon had not been taken from her, nor had any threatening movements been made as of yet. The entire situation put her on edge, but she knew that no answers would be forthcoming. She would simply have to wait until they arrived at their destination.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, the car pulled into an empty warehouse. The headlights lit up the open space, the lone occupant of the building silhouetted by the white beams. As the car shut off, the headlights dying, the warehouse lights compensated for the difference and cast strange shadows on the ground. There was no one else there, no chairs and no weird shapes. Aidan got out, followed by the woman and the driver, and faced the man with grudging respect.

“Brilliant, I have to say,” she confessed. “You obviously know who and what I am, and what makes me twitchy. Open building, no chance of anyone hiding. Windows are blocked off, the rafters clearly lit, so no snipers either. You had your people get out of the car so I could keep an eye on them, and you stand with no weapon or potential weapon in your possession save for that umbrella, which is just an umbrella. You also haven't taken my gun from me, which means you want me to retain some sense of control, and you don't want to be seen as my enemy.” She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in his stance and his features. “I don't know you, though.”

The man who had sent for her, clearly, twirled his umbrella then held it in both hands. “No, you don't, and you wouldn't. I will be straight with you, Ms. Mallory, which as anyone can tell you is quite unusual when meeting me for the first time.”

“Yes, you seem the enigmatic sort.” She narrowed her eyes. “You're the one who's been stalking me with the CCTVs, aren't you? And based on Mike's comment earlier, you have some sort of connection with one of my new housemates.”

“Indeed, and I must apologize for the intrusion. I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. I hold a minor position in the British government-”

“Which is to say,” she interrupted, “and having experienced first-hand your privileges, you're in the best position of the British government to have fingers, eyes, and ears in everything.”

“Quite.” Mycroft smiled, and it seemed to be a pleased sort of smile. “I must confess that if I had to choose anyone to move into Baker Street, you're a fine candidate with your observational skills. That will keep Sherlock off your back if you demonstrate them to him, or it might bring him to feel he must compete with you. Ms. Mallory, why did you choose this location?”

Aidan blinked. “You know what my situation is, right?”

“Indeed. In hiding from certain individuals, from what I've gathered.” He lifted his umbrella tip and examined it as he spoke, then set the end on the concrete floor. “You do realize that I am not pleased with you bringing your troubles to my country, to my city, and to my brother's home.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less.” Aidan crossed hr arms. “You're not making it any better, you know. The less I'm on camera, the less chance I'll be found. Your systems aren't secure enough.”

“I have the highest security in the country, Ms. Mallory.”

“Perhaps, but it's still not secure enough. Erase all footage of me, and any searches you've done on me.” She froze, a thought dawning… “You didn't talk to Sam about me, did you?”

“Agent Isaacs, no. I am not ignorant of the fact that no one knows where you are, excepting Michael Yates. I suppose I could call him your handler, since you are not in substantial contact with the IBI at this moment. I will be speaking with him, of course.”

“He seems to know who you are, somehow. But choosing here, of all places… I had a list of a hundred forty-three different addresses that were safe to hide away in. I gave allusions to the western states in America, so no one will be looking in Europe yet. I have a prearranged status code, so I won't be alarming your brother when I reassure Sam of my safety when in his presence. I don't want him to know of my occupation, not if I can help it. He's content in thinking he knows me, and what I do, so I'm not too worried about him going digging.” She straightened, holding her head high. “And I'm requesting, for my safety, that you stop.”

Mycroft was silent for a minute or so. As he looked at her, mind no doubt going as fast as―or even faster than―his brother's, she held herself resolute. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. Now was not a time to be distracted.

The elder Holmes brother smiled. “Don't you want to get that?”

Aidan crossed her arms again, having let them drop in her relief at Mycroft's discretion. “If it's important, it will go to voicemail.” She could only think of four people who would be calling her―Mrs. Hudson, John, Mike, or Luke. There was no reason why John would be calling, and Mrs. Hudson knew she was out at work and would be home late. Given the events of the night, it was likely Luke with that lead she needed. Time to wrap up this meeting, then.

Mycroft seemed to recognize her intent. “I am still not happy with your decision to lodge here, Ms. Mallory, but I highly doubt I'll get anywhere in persuading you to go elsewhere. So I have an offer for you instead.”

The woman frowned. “What sort of offer?”

“Not one that would require much exertion on your part, but I figure I ought to take advantage of this opportunity as it presents itself. I would like you to keep an eye on Sherlock for me. He is very resourceful, you see, and often is able to evade my attempts at keeping track of him.”

Aidan went still. “You want me to spy on him.”

“Yes. For his safety, I assure you. You'd simply be reporting when he's gone out of the house and when he's returned, and where you go together. There was an incident a while ago, you see, in which he had to fake his death to preserve the lives of his few friends. I do not want his life to be in danger again, though I know all too well that his line of work makes this a vain hope. And with John married and living elsewhere, he does not have a constant presence with fighting experience around.”

“So you want me to spy on him,” she said, feeling hung up on that idea. Nothing sat well in her about that thought. 

He nodded. “Yes, I do. Well, not so much spying as informing, reporting. I'd rather you were the least involved in Sherlock's life as possible, but those who live near him tend to get sucked into the vortex of his life. You may try to stay away, Ms. Mallory, but you won't be able to. Your supposed job as a bartender presents the ready availability of rumors to him, and he will draw on that at some point. He will drag you along, and you will not be able to resist that lure. You crave the adventure; you wouldn't be a Sweeper, otherwise.”

Aidan shifted her balance to her heels and frowned. The thought was not very appealing, given her situation. But this informing business needed to be dealt with first, before it could cause problems. “I apologize, but I can't. What you're asking me to do goes against my conscience.”

He was not fazed much. “You ask others to do so, do you not?”

Her smile was flat and thin. “Your analogy fails. Sherlock is not a criminal.”

Mycroft regarded her with what seemed to be concern. “Is there no way I can convince you? I could pay you handsomely for your services.”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft. Whatever you want me to call you.” She sighed. “Sherlock's business is his own, and I don't want to become involved in it. Look, I appreciate the fact that you're worried for your brother. I would be, too. But I'm not a spy, I'm not a busybody. I cannot tell you when he goes out, when he comes in, and where he drags me if he ever does. But-” She tilted her head to the side, an idea dawning. “You say you're worried since John doesn't live there anymore. I can protect him, when he's near. I can even shadow him on his more dangerous cases. Just give me a call, and I'll go see if he needs protection or not. If he does, then I'll keep to the background and stop whoever tries to hurt him. And if he ever does drag me along―perish the thought―then I'll keep an eye out then, too. I just won't tell you what he's up to, not anything you can't find out on your own.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and repeated the process. A couple goes at this, and he stopped to think about it. She waited, half wishing _she_ had stopped to think before she proposed this alternative. After all, wasn't she trying to distance herself from people, to not get close to them? This active involvement in her housemate's life would not contribute to this goal.

Mycroft nodded after a short time. “This is acceptable. How would you like me to pay you for your services?”

Aidan winced and ran a hand through her hair in agitation. Okay, so she had just signed herself up to be a bodyguard. Well, she could work with this. “All I want is help with my cover story, and a special license for carrying my firearm. Talk to Mike and he'll fill you in. If he wants confirmation that I sent you his way, tell him I said that Luke is on the job for hunting down Palmer.”

She took a step back, keeping the driver and the woman in view as she did so. “If that is all?”

Mycroft blinked, then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Of course. You may go if you wish. Would you like a ride to your destination?”

Aidan wrinkled her nose. “Too showy. My target would be gone by the time I entered the building. Well, it's been fun. This is where I say goodbye, good riddance, you're annoying.”

He chuckled, obviously amused. “Yes, well. Do stay alive, Ms. Mallory.”

She turned her back and left the warehouse. The black car drove past her through the open doors when she paused to check her phone, and she paid it only as much attention as she needed to. It was Luke who had called, and her lips curled upwards at what the call meant. 

_“Hey, Nic. Tip paid out, BP is in an old flat above the bar by the skate park with the creepy door. Boys say he's gone every afternoon, drinks in the bar every evening, and then goes upstairs where he stays until the next afternoon. He's in the bar now, but it's close to the time that he goes upstairs. Benson wants to know if you want backup. We'll be in the skate park if you do. Nice to have you back in town, by the way. See you around.”_

Aidan put her phone away and walked away from the warehouse. Let the fun begin.


	5. Chapter 5

### Chapter Five

The encounter with Mycroft Holmes weighed heavily on her mind as she rode the Underground toward the east side of London. She didn't doubt she would come to regret her rash deal with him on some level, and that her time in London would not be going as she initially planned―not after this. 

But she shoved that thought away. She had a job to do, not the one she had accidentally walked into but the one she had deliberately set before herself. Sherlock and whatever worries that came with him could come later, after her task was completed. If all went well, Bishop Palmer would be in handcuffs in the nearest Metropolitan Police office before two hours passed. 

If all went well.

Aidan was under no illusions that this was guaranteed to be an easy job. You couldn't always trust the ranking system, though it was fairly accurate. She had once stumbled upon an A-rank by mistake, having thought him to be merely a B-rank. That cost the home of a British government official, and almost the lives that had crowded inside, and was an incident that Mike loved to tease her with―hence the earlier needling. Therefore, she would do what she always did with any mark since then: she treated him as if he were one or two ranks higher, sans the license-to-kill-if-a-big-enough-threat part. This meant a lot of stealth and there was absolutely no way that she was bringing Luke and his friend Benson into this. They had done their part; it was time for Aidan to do hers.

Her time on the Tube was spent going over a mental map of the area Palmer was holed up in. She had been there before, a couple times in fact. “The skate park with the creepy door” was a vague description, but specific enough for her to recognize. The creepy door in question was more of an iron gate barring the entrance to a dark stairway, nestled in the corner of the skate park. The lock and chain that sealed it were weathered and rusted, recalling past decades to mind with the number of years that had clearly borne witness to it. Where the stairway itself led, no one knew; that lock hadn't been removed for years, and neither Mike nor Aidan had been able to locate plans for the tunnel. 

For now, however, this was besides the point. The neighboring pub was her destination, or more specifically the flats above. If she caught him at the right time, maybe she could even pull this off without a problem. That would be more than nice, it would be wonderful. One armed robber off the streets, plus seven hundred pounds in her pocket. The other three hundred, of course, she had promised to her two helpers. 

The pub in question had a good crowd gathered inside as she approached from down the street. She would have to be careful that no shots were fired, especially downwards through the floor, when she went to capture him. The windows upstairs were all shut tight, she saw, but Aidan knew how to improvise. The gutter pipe on the side of the building was anchored securely to the wall, and with some caution and exertion she was able to creep up toward the roof. Before she reached that, however, she peered to the left to see what room she was outside of. A kitchen lay in wait, giving her a smile. _Perfect._ And this window wasn't locked, she found. Either Palmer had forgotten, he had left it open on purpose, or the lock was simply broken. Either way, she was going to risk it. 

Her ambition paid off. The window came open quietly when she requested it to, sliding smoothly up towards the ceiling and allowing her passage to slip inside―which required a bit more maneuvering but was easy enough, considering. Inside, she found herself next to a small wooden table with a set of chairs, one of which she would have to climb over in order to get herself out of the corner she had boxed herself into.

The window closed as easily as it had opened, gloved fingers ensuring no oils were left to give away her presence. If Palmer wasn't already in bed, he would be coming up soon from the bar downstairs. She needed to be concealed by the time that happened, or all her efforts at sneaking in would be futile. She did not want a commotion on her hands, one that Sherlock would surely find out about at a glance if he was there when she returned to her new flat.

Careful to not budge anything a millimeter, Aidan climbed over the chair penning her in and toed around for any loose floorboards. The bedroom was on her left, past the kitchen counter and the fridge. Opposite her was the door to the hall, dead-bolted to prevent entry. The kitchen itself was barren, sporting some crumbs and a spot of jam on the table but aside from that everything was stowed away in the cabinets, if there was anything. There was no sign to indicate who occupied the flat, but Aidan trusted Luke to have given her accurate information―he had never failed her before, and she trusted him to not be out of practice―and this was the flat he had specified. Her only option now was to check the bedroom and, if he was not there, wait for Palmer in the wardrobe. Hiding in the toilet was too risky, given that the criminal had been eating and/or drinking for the past hour and would possibly enter that room shortly after returning to the flat.

As it turned out, the bedroom was empty. The toilet was a small room in the right-hand corner, walling in a shower stall, a toilet, and a small sink with a mirror above it. The door had been left open from the last time the occupant of the flat had been in here, as had the door to the bedroom. She was grateful, as it meant no approximating where the door had been open to, no suspicious bunching up of whatever rug or discarded towel had been behind the door before she got to it. Maybe her mark would be drunk enough to not notice any details, but she knew she ought to be prepared for a stone-cold sober and hyper-paranoid target. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, they said; she could think of several similar colloquialisms, but nothing original at the moment. She would stick with the tried and true words of wisdom, then, and so made sure her phone was turned all the way off. Even vibrating would make too much noise right now.

The bed was off in the left corner of the small bedroom, close to the wall of the toilet. At its foot lay the wardrobe, and between that and the door was a small desk where a few spare pence had been scattered but not much else. She eyed the the old Chinese takeaway boxes and wrinkled her nose, but the only papers she could see right now were random receipts from Tescos, a local Fish 'n' Chips shop, and the Chinese place the takeaway had been ordered from. A closer look revealed a couple day passes for the Underground, one for zones one through three and the following day's was for zones one through four. She would collect them later, to see if they would help the police figure out what he was up to. Perhaps the shop locations and the tickets together could narrow down where Palmer had been frequenting, if this was Palmer's flat. She wasn't a detective like her new housemate, but even she knew that the add-on of zone four was potentially telling. 

A rowdy cheer from the bar below woke her from her musings. Abandoning any attempt at sleuth-work, she stepped around the desk chair and stopped in front of the wardrobe. It wasn't locked, and even if it had been it was one of those cheap locks that didn't even latch. It was split into two halves, one half containing shelves on which the occupant had stored t-shirts and trousers, the other half opened up to allow space for hanging clothes, such as the leather jacket shoved to one side with a handful of button-ups. The floor of that space had a pair of steel-toed boots caked in dried mud, the same mud which speckled the jacket above them. Eyeing them, Aidan changed her mind about collecting the receipts and decided she would instead direct the police to examine the flat for clues as to what the guy was up to. Doing otherwise could mess things up, or be considered obstruction of justice. No, it was better that she did her job, and let them do theirs. 

She closed the other door and slid into the space beside the boots, making sure she was far back enough from the door on her side to let it shut more or less securely. It was uncomfortable, this half-crouch she had placed herself in, especially when she was trying not to disturb the boots, but by bracing herself with her arms she was able to stay still and not fall over. It would not be pleasant, but she had to admit that few things were pleasant about this career she had chosen.

Now to wait, and hope that this was the right place.

. . . ... . . .

“She’s not going to let us help her, you know.”

Benson turned to look at his friend, the taller boy's words coming out of nowhere. He had been pensive for the last half hour, staring silently at the iron grate in the corner of the skate park that led to a black abyss of stairs curling downwards in a tight spiral. Benson had no idea what significance it could hold, but Luke had seemed to fixate on it like nothing else existed ever since he had sat down to wait for the woman's call.

“Nic,” the taller boy clarified at his sound of incomprehension, and Benson thought back to the woman who had come up to them and asked them to look for some bloke with money on his head for her. His friend seemed to trust her, but he himself wasn’t entirely sure. But Luke continued, voice flat and sounding bored. “She's not going to let us help. We got the info, and that's as much of a risk as she's going to let us take.”

“So she's going after this guy alone?” What was this woman, an idiot? His mum had always stressed that one should never be without a partner when entering a dangerous situation. “She needs backup.” 

Luke shook his head. “She can take care of herself.”

“So can we.”

“Yeah, and that's why she lets herself ask for help.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking tired. “Remember how she fixated on your teaching me self-defense? And me teaching you Parkour?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she doesn't care so much that you could attack someone and not get hurt. Come to think of it, she probably wouldn't have asked you to help me, either, if it hadn't been for my teaching you to be a traceur, and that two together is safer than me being alone.”

Benson felt the corners of his lips turn sharply downwards. “Why's that?”

“She doesn't want us to have to fight if there's an opportunity to run.” The blonde shrugged. “It's just how she is―she wouldn't even ask for help if she didn't need it. It's a big city, and so an information network is necessary to track down her bounties, sometimes.”

“So she really is a Sweeper?”

His taller friend nodded. “Yup. And she's pretty good at it, which is obvious since she still is one. I haven't seen or heard from her in three years, so I don't know what she's been up to. She probably went back across the Pond, though, after she left.”

“Wait.” Benson held up a hand to stop him. “Three years? _Three years_ of silence, and you just say hello and go hunt some info willy nilly, at the drop of the hat, for a woman you haven't seen or heard from in _three years?_ ”

Luke shrugged. “You came, too, you know.”

“Yes, because I wasn't about to let you come here alone, especially when we're up to something like this.”

“Smarter than I was at fifteen, I guess. But she needed the info as soon as possible. We can catch up later if she wants to. We haven't really talked much in the past, anyway. Mostly she just asks me to find people for her.” He laughed, short and sharp, a sound that sent a chill up Benson's spine. “Nic isn't even her real name, I figure.”

“Then what is?”

“I don't know. Nicky? She doesn't like me calling her that, but maybe it's because it's too girly. It's safer not to know, anyway.”

Benson stared at his friend's seemingly casual acceptance. It was only now, after they had found the guy, that he had begun to realize just what he was getting into, and the stories his mum had shared with him from work were not letting him be blasé about this. “Don't you even realize what's happening here?”

“Yes. Nic is doing her job.”

“That's- You barely know the woman, by your own admission. And aren't you worried?”

Luke turned and met his eyes, and Benson suddenly realized just how empty they looked, how haunted. “Yes, I am. She saved my life once, and I owe her. And she herself almost died a few times in the month she was here last. Being a Sweeper is not a safe career by any means. But I can't do anything but wait, because if I got hurt because of this job then Nic would never forgive herself. I may not know her name, and I may not know what sort of thing she does in her free time, but I know her well enough to know this. So that's why I'm staying here, and you are, too, and not going to back her up at Palmer's flat. She can take care of herself. She always has. She has to.” His voice was breaking by the end, and Benson took pity on him and offered a simple nod of understanding. He wasn't sure how much he did understand, in reality, but he would drop it for now. Maybe, in the course of helping Luke find info for this “Nic”―it was clear that his friend wasn't about to stop, not after a speech like that―he would get the answers he wanted. 

And maybe, a dark thought crept up, the toughest subject to get information on in all of this would be the Sweeper herself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, **dont_be_such_a_sour_wolf** , and thank you to those who have subscribed. :-)

### Chapter Six

In the end, the job was quite simple, almost to the point of making Aidan suspicious. A man had come in, stumbling every eighth step and smelling of strong whisky, and passed out out immediately on his bed. He didn't even go to the toilet, just flopped onto old, creaky bedsprings and snored. 

She poked the wardrobe door open, wrinkling her nose at the odor and what she instantly recognized to be Bishop Palmer's face. He gave no response to the soft creak the hinges inexplicably sounded, except to let out another rattling snore that dribbled saliva onto the bedspread. Repulsed, Aidan tightened her grip on her weapon and stared. A beard had begun to grow on his jaw, three day stubble casting a dark shadow on the lower half of his face. His hair, mid-length and showing signs of having been slicked back, was now unkempt and lay scattered across his closed, sunken eyes. This was not a healthy man, nor sober, and whatever he had been up to on his afternoons seemed to be stressing him more than what would be normal. She wondered what he had been doing, or if hiding had brought him to this state, but decided interrogation could wait until he was in custody of the police. She knew better than to question him here and now, when a drunken rage could cause things to be decidedly un-simple. But how should she go about this? Could it be so easy as hauling him downstairs?

Stepping back into the kitchen, Aidan turned her phone on and dialed the number she had added to her address book upon arriving at Heathrow. A woman picked up after a couple rings, and she eyed the unconscious form on the bed from her place by the door rather warily. “Hi, yes,” she started in, after allowing the other woman to give her scripted greeting. “I need a cab sent to this address. It's a pub called Bellmonte and I need a ride to get my friend home.” She gave the street address of the pub and adopted a sheepish tone. “See, we went out for the evening and he's had a bit too much to drink, and I can't help him hobble that far. No, he's not nauseous… Yeah, just really out of it. I can haul him in and out of the cab and keep him under control. He shouldn't cause any problems. So we can do that? Thank you, ma'am, you've been great. Yes, thank you. We'll just be waiting on the curb.”

She hung up the phone with a breath of relief. All right, so maybe this could work after all. Palmer seemed out of it enough that she could get him to walk downstairs on his own, and she was highly reluctant to give him any amount of sedative with the levels of alcohol he doubtless had in his bloodstream. She sent a text to Luke, knowing that he was probably anxious for her given how quickly he formed an attachment to her the last time she was in England and told him where to meet her before she stuffed the device into an inside jacket pocket as she stepped into the bedroom.

Aidan grabbed one of the drunk man's arms and hauled it over her shoulders to lift him off the bed. He was heavy, made more so by his lack of motor control, and as she heaved him upwards she had to take a moment to steady herself. Palmer was doing absolutely nothing to stand on his own, and his dead weight caused her to nearly overbalance until she got her feet planted properly. And still he snored and drooled, and she made a noise in the back of her throat to express her surprise. He was more out of it than she had thought, and she realized he must have drunk far more than he probably intended. 

It was extremely slow going, taking him one shuffling step at a time to the door, wrestling him carefully down the hall, and practically carrying him down stair by stair. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs she was breathing hard and dripping sweat down her back. Her arms and back burned, and it took a firm clench of her jaw to force herself into the next step, getting him down the hall and out the side door, then to the curb and into the cab. She imagined her face was red from the effort, and vowed to do more strength training if it would help her do something like this again. At least she could be truthful if Sherlock noticed and asked—she had been carrying a drunk out of the bar, she would answer.

Palmer made a noise as she maneuvered him out the door. “Whzg’non…?” he mumbled, eyes cracking open to the barest sliver for a moment. “Gnasleep…”

“Shh,” she hushed him, squeezing the arm she had wrapped over her neck. “It’s okay. You can sleep some more.”

“Bed?”

That word was the clearest she heard from him so far, and she nodded. “As soon as I get you to one, all right?”

“‘Kay…”

Aidan breathed a sigh of relief as his weight dropped back down on her. Yes, it was ridiculously difficult to drag him outside, but she’d rather that than having to deal with the man resisting and putting up a struggle. She didn’t particularly want to have to risk dealing with the detective inspector Sherlock was in contact with, in case she ever ran into him when she wasn’t on the job.

The cab was waiting for them when she heaved him around the corner. From there it was only thirty steps, she figured, and found herself counting each one as she went. The trip was made a bit more difficult as Palmer’s feet dragged along the pavement, but finally she was able to lean him against the cab so she could open the rear door. 

The cabbie peered out at her with an impressed gaze. “He must be pretty heavy.”

“More than a bit,” she grunted, but decided it would be better not to ask for help in manhandling her bounty. She did manage eventually to get him in, and circled around to the other side rather than shoving him into the next seat. He was flopped across the entire back seat by the time she got in anyway, so with a sigh she chose the backwards-facing chair. “196 Bishopsgate,” she requested, remembering there were some apartments there. It would be a couple blocks to the police station at 182, but she figured it would be worth the struggle in the end if she could get Palmer there without causing a fuss, and questions about why she wanted dropped off right next to the police. 

Palmer lifted his head from the seat. “Say m’ name?”

“Go back to sleep,” she answered him with a smile. “I’ll get you to a bed soon so you can rest.”

He passed out again, releasing a rattling snore, and she heaved a sigh as he did so. The cab pulled away from the curb, and she breathed a silent prayer that the rest of the night would go as well as it had been.

. . . ... . . .

It was well into the early morning hours when Aidan pushed her way through the door to 221 Baker Street, exhausted and knowing she would be feeling that heavy lifting when she next woke up She wasn’t even sure what time it was, lacking the motivation to pull out her phone and check. But it had been worth it, she decided; a potentially dangerous felon was in jail, and she had a nice check in her wallet that she could cash the next afternoon for some fifty pound notes to pass on to her helpers. She had told Luke she would be in touch with him soon on that point, and she figured that was the only reason he and his frowning friend let her go without any questions.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out with a groan. The caller ID read as Sam, so she tapped the green answer button. “Go for me,” she said with a passable attempt at brightness, sitting herself down on the stairs up to 221B as quietly as she could. The time, 4:33, faintly registered in her brain, and she decided she would be crashing in bed as soon as she could. 

_“Hey, Nicole,”_ Sam Isaacs answered, and she made a face.

“Don’t call me that,” Aidan complained, letting the oft spoken words roll easily from her tongue. In response, Sam laughed. The tension that had been in his voice disappeared at the coded assurance, and she felt herself smiling.

 _“Sorry, sorry,”_ he apologized. _“How’ve you been, Aidan?”_

“Well enough.” She mentally calculated the time for the East Coast—11:33pm, which meant it should be around eight in the evening in the area she was rumored to be. “Sorry if I sound tired, I’ve had a long day. Had to deal with some difficult customers. I’ll likely be going to bed as soon as I can, as should you.”

 _“Early to bed, early to rise, huh?”_ Of course, Sam was perfectly aware that the western states were probably not where she had ended up, but he was willing to help sell the cover. _“Yeah, at the office pretty late, here. We’re still tracking Alders and his men, having trouble pinning them down. Looks like there’s some activity in Wyoming. You like mountains, right?”_

She filed the information away. “Yeah, and the Rockies are great, especially in Glacier. Though I wouldn’t say no to the Smokies, either. Where you at?”

_“We’re based out of New York City right now, working overtime. And, I know, you don’t want to know where your family is. They’re not here, but that leaves a bazillion other cities in the US they could be at, I guess.”_

Aidan laughed, then sobered. “And a gazillion more. As long as they’re fine, I don’t need to know.”

_“They’re fine. Look, you take care, okay? Kyle’s calling, so I need to let you go. And I should be getting home to Taylor.”_

“All right. Be careful, and watch out for the others for me. I’m not there to keep your butts out of trouble.”

The Special Agent for the IBI snickered. _“I thought that was me who did that. Anyway, get some sleep, rest up.”_

“Sir, yes, sir. Bye, Sam. Keep in touch?”

 _“Sounds good.”_ He hung up, and she let her hand drop to her lap. Finally, bedtime.

“Lying does not become you.”

Aidan cursed as she practically toppled off the steps, grabbing for the taser in her jacket. “Holy _shhh…_ Sherlock! Make some more noise as you lurk, will you?”

The tall brunette looked down his nose at her from the top of the stairs, hands on both rails and leaning down. He was wearing some long grey loose-legged pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt—a vest, she remembered vaguely—and over this hung what looked to be a blue silk robe. His feet were bare, his slippers clutched in his left hand against the bannister. Yet for all that, Aidan suspected he hadn’t even been attempting to sleep. “You didn’t deny it. Interesting.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then scowled at him as she returned the taser to her pocket. “You’d know I was lying in that case, too. And it’s not like he didn’t know. He is perfectly aware that I don’t want anyone knowing where I am, including him, and so he doesn’t ask and I don’t tell. But then again, I never told him a direct lie, either. He just asked if I like mountains, and I answered truthfully.”

“Not that.” Sherlock pushed himself upright, peering smugly at her. “‘I don’t need to know,’ you said, but you do need to, you’re just afraid of something. You need to know, you _want_ to know, but for some reason you do not ask. Are you afraid of their reaching out to you?”

Aidan stood up and pocketed her phone. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Is this one of those ‘a bit not good’ things?” Sherlock’s face was twisted in consternation. “I can’t tell, usually, without John to go off of.”

“Why would you admit that to me?” Aidan frowned at him. “Never mind. Yes, in this case it’s one of those ‘a bit not good’ things.”

“Very well, then.” Sherlock leaned against the wall and pulled on his slippers one at a time. “You’ll be coming up at a quarter to four, tomorrow.”

A blink. “What?”

“Tea,” Sherlock enunciated carefully, as if she were daft. “John and Mary are coming over. They’ll be wanting to welcome you properly, so I’ll plan for high tea at four. I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson when it is a ‘proper hour,’ or what she considers proper. Apparently five in the morning is not sensible hour for even John, now that he doesn’t need to be up until six. You’re to come up at a quarter ’til.”

Aidan found herself opening and closing her mouth again in her shock before she managed to get her thoughts in order. “Uhh… All right? Tea. 3:45, got it.”

“Excellent.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and smirked at her in a manner that irritated something in a way she was too tired to deal with. “You were going to bed?”

“Yes.” She turned away pointedly, determined not to be distracted from the pillow calling her name. He didn’t stop her this time, and she firmly closed and locked the door at the top of the stairs behind her as she went through. Her bed was beckoning, and no creepily silent consulting detectives were going to keep her from it.


	7. Chapter 7

### Chapter Seven

There was something going on today. That was the thought that entered her mind first when she opened her eyes to the sun leaking in through a small half window blocked off with iron bars. She could hear the lunch rush in Speedy’s Sandwich Shop upstairs, a rhythmic stamp of feet above where her new living room was—her pathetically bare living room, with its ripped wallpaper that would require quite a bit of work in her free time if she was going to get the place fixed up. 

Right, she had moved into a flat… A basement flat… 221C, the one Kyle had told her about. And her upstairs neighbor had demanded her presence for high tea at four.

]Aidan buried her head in her pillow with a pained groan. Already she could tell that Mycroft’s prediction would ring true, that close proximity to Sherlock would mean automatic involvement in his life—even if that meant tea, though that was either because it was expected of him or he saw some use in providing a welcoming party of sorts. Maybe John talked him into it? He had mentioned that his friend would be wanting to do this… In that case, John was probably going to be just as dangerous to become associated with if she wanted to make a clean getaway.

Luke and Mike’s faces flashed across the darkness behind her eyelids, and she sighed. It had hardly been that painless last time, either. No matter what she did, she was going to have to say goodbye to somebody. But maybe she could keep it just to the two she had already tethered herself to?

Her phone tootled angrily at her, and she swatted her hand at it until she could grasp the device in her fingers. Noon, the numbers declared—she had managed seven hours of sleep, somehow, despite her late night. If she wanted to get anything done before her appointment upstairs, then now was probably a good time to get up. It wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with less sleep, anyway, or that she had to work against changing hours; she had been in Wales for the last few days to do that, and to make some small pocket change. 

Well, she had a check in her wallet to cash, anyway. She had a phone bill to pay, and that spare equipment was not going to be free. Sherlock, thank you very much, could stay where he belonged for the time being—well out of her head.

. . . ... . . .

In hind sight, it hadn’t worked that well, she decided as she scowled at the step where she had sat the night before—she had never been that great at not worrying, and not being given a choice always rankled at her. It wasn’t too late…she could still abandon ship, maybe find a CCTV camera and beg Mycroft to kidnap her again. She really ought to find out his number and add him, she decided. It would be useful in times like these. But then, he would probably require her to do something more than their bargained deal if she asked for that…

“Aidan?” John was at the top of the steps this time, but at least he had made noise as he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, unlike his former flatmate. He sounded confused, probably for good reason since not everyone looked at stairs like they had a vendetta against them. 

Aidan sighed and placed a hand on the bannister as she moved upwards. “Sorry, John, just thinking.”

“Sherlock?”

The man had such a knowing look on his face, Aidan had to laugh. “Yeah, Sherlock. I guess he just rubbed against me the wrong way when he ‘invited’ me to tea when I got back last night. Mind you, I was sleep deprived anyway, so I’m probably not as charitable as I could be right now.”

John’s lips twitched. “For once, it wasn’t actually my idea, but I suppose he expected I was going to mention it. Come on up, Mary’s here this time and she’s looking forward to meeting one of the few people we’ve encountered in the world who can stand Sherlock Holmes.”

“And who haven’t been chased off by Mycroft?” It wasn’t like they weren’t going to find that part out eventually, and it was well worth the comment to see the exasperated look on John’s face as she approached him.

“Oh, for— Sherlock! Your brother is at it again.”

“Mycroft?” The tall brunette appeared at the doorway, dressed once again in a tailored suit, this one light grey with a black dress shirt, where yesterday’s had been light blue. It was an odd juxtaposition between the two, to see Sherlock’s pricy clothing and John’s comfortable sweaters that looked hand knit. The building, too, set him off; he looked as if he belonged in an office or a mansion, instead of a cozy flat in the middle of London. Yet, somehow, it fit him rather well.

John nodded at his friend, and then Aidan saw the camaraderie between the two that made such distinctions as money and clothing invisible. She had seen it the day before, too—a glance from John, and Sherlock’s mouth had closed, though he had rolled his eyes and seemed exasperated. But John hadn’t been annoyed then, and his annoyance now was at a common target, Mycroft. “He kidnapped Aidan yesterday,” he explained. “After work?”

Having joined them on the landing, Aidan shrugged. “It’s not that big a deal, don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock frowned severely. “He does this to everyone I meet, so it’s hardly a surprise. Inform me if he does it again. Did you take the money?”

So he _was_ aware of what his brother was up to. Aidan had hardly expected anything less. “He asked me to inform on you,” she evaded, pushing her irritation into that statement. “I said no.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock beamed at her, and she couldn’t help but feel as if she had passed some sort of test, though the knowledge of what she had bargained for in return rankled a bit. “Though in your case it might have done you some good. I would have accepted a forty-sixty split percentage of the profits, as long as you were honest about what you were telling my nosy older brother. But I think I like this better, a snub in Mycroft’s nose _and_ it means you’re actually useful.”

Dang- _nab_ -it. She just couldn’t win! John gave her a commiserating look, so at least it wasn’t just her. Maybe Sherlock had done this to him in the beginning, before he started voluntarily going along? It would be just her luck if he was a willing participant from the beginning, though, and she was alone in her plight.

Hurricane Sherlock whirled back into 221B, and Aidan followed an exasperated John into the flat. The first thing she noticed was a woman going through some papers at a table between the windows, seated in a way that suggested she had been at this for a while. Her hair was shorter than her own and close to the same light blonde, and her back strong despite the weary tilt of her shoulders. The features of her face were soft and kind, Aidan particularly noted when she looked up, and it was credit to Mary Watson that she looked at Sherlock like he was a friend, as Aidan had been told quite a few times by now that not many people did that. So she was accepting of quirky people, that was good, and arrogance didn’t faze her. 

Mary stepped away from the desk and walked directly to her. “You must be Aidan,” she greeted, smiling warmly in a way that reminded the younger woman of her mother. “I’m Mary, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Aidan replied dutifully, and Mary’s attitude was refreshing enough that it truly was. 

Aidan was directed toward the chairs at the fireplace with a polite wave and a smile, and she sat down gratefully, already interpreting the strategic placement of chairs for this occasion. Seated in an armchair by the fireplace, she had the wall and a curtained window to her back and could view the room easily, preventing anyone from sneaking up on her. So Sherlock had learned, she decided, or knew better than to subject her to being startled so much at her own welcoming party. The couch was left alone at the other side of the room, so she wasn’t facing the three side-by-side like an interrogation or an interview, and instead Mary sat in another easy chair across from her while John pulled up one of the chairs from the desk. Sherlock grabbed a chair, too, but had its back to her and sat astride on it, then abruptly stood back up and breezed into the kitchen. 

She watched in bewilderment as he brought out a tier of small sandwich quarters and placed it on an end table that had been positioned by the fireplace, between the two armchairs. Quick steps returned him to the kitchen, and he came back out with a tray of cups and a steaming teapot. “Oolong?” he asked, tone almost patronizing in its politeness. Aidan blinked in shock at him, and noticed out of the corner of her eyes how John and Mary were doing the same. 

“That’s fine,” she answered, wondering what he was fishing for, or what he was going to request. This didn’t seem to fit his personality, from what she had seen so far.

John sat and stared in what Aidan could only term as wonder. “I never was treated this well when I moved in with you. You’ve _never_ behaved this way. What’s gotten into you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, you never required special attention of such a kind.”

Aidan kept her hands on her lap as Sherlock offered a poured cup, forcing him to pause. “So why do I?” she asked. “How am I at all ‘useful’ as you termed it, to the point you artificially affect this attitude?”

Sherlock took on this pinched look. “How can you tell it’s artificial?”

She looked at him, he looked back with a demand for an answer, and Aidan rolled her eyes. “Tone, Mr. Holmes. You aren’t even trying to sound genuine, so you want me to notice that this isn’t you. Why?”

Slowly a smile spread across Sherlock’s lips in a wave that sent a foreboding shudder down her spine. “Why, indeed,” he mused, sounding all too pleased. “Definitely not useless.”

Aidan scowled at him. “I will not be participant to an interview I want nothing of.”

“Too late.” Sherlock grabbed one of her hands fast enough that she didn’t get a chance to recoil, then pressed the warm cup on its saucer into it. “Your references have come back clear, you’ve been approved. Assessment of skills is ongoing, but there is definite potential there.”

John stopped him with the wave of a hand. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock defined, but he didn’t sound patronizing this time, and instead seemed to fall into a habitual pace. But it still sounded way too smug to her ears. “He questioned her—as he always does—tested her, and found her worthy, of sorts. If she were a danger then Ms. Mallory would not be with us. If she was not accepting of me in all my acidity, as it has been called, then she would not have come up to tea at all, and Mycroft would have chased her away with horror stories of past exploits and my general attitude toward humanity. If she had accepted the bribe to spy on me, and if she had been dishonest when she answered my question, then I would not trust her in any way. In all three areas I’ve listed, she has passed with flying colors. And she has a brain and can use it, points to her. She can defend herself and has an instinct to do so, also a plus. And, finally, she is in the prime position to gather rumors and information for me should she choose to do so.”

“Oh. My. God.” Aidan stared at him. “You are seriously trying to recruit me.”

“Naturally.” He didn’t seem at all embarrassed about it. “Would you like to join my information network?”

Aidan sat in silence for a moment, then slowly and deliberately sipped at her tea. “You really need to work on your sales pitch, Sherlock.”

“…That’s a no, then?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Perhaps I’ll reconsider later, but for now I’d just like to settle into my new job and new city, get to know people, get to know the area, and then later I might be more accepting of the idea.”

He frowned but gave no other reaction to her answer as he turned to give the cups of tea to his friends. Probably, he had already expected it and was disappointed that she hadn’t defied his preconceptions. She wasn’t about to accommodate him there. 

Mary cleared her throat, defusing the growing tension. “So what do you do, Aidan?”

“I tend bar.” Aidan leaned back in her chair and considered her answer. It was plausible, she decided, and Sherlock already believed it. “It’s not exactly lucrative, but it pays all right.”

“Ah, so that’s why Sherlock is after you. Barkeepers are famous for being willing and unwilling ears to rambling bar patrons, I’m sure.” She smiled, a sparkle in her eyes. “Tell him no as often as you like.”

“I’ll do that,” was Aidan’s smirking reply as she ignored the way Sherlock looked annoyed. It served him right for trying to manipulate her, and she was tired enough still to not want to deal with him much more. “What’s your job? In the medical field, like John?”

“Yes, I’m a nurse,” Mary confirmed. “We met at the surgery, actually.”

“Mary helped me a lot when Sherlock was gone,” John added, looking at his wife with a look in his eyes that made Aidan want to giggle. Even as a stranger, she could instantly tell how good the two were for each other as they reached out automatically and clasped hands, positively glowing. It was cute, she decided—and it seemed even Sherlock was not immune to his friend’s happiness as his gaze softened with a glance to them.

Aidan drank her tea and smiled. So Sherlock was human; she had wondered for a bit. 

He straddled the chair again, having put the teapot down on the table where Mary’s papers were scattered. “No one has made John happier,” he mused distractedly, and he didn’t seem to notice John’s appreciative blush. After a moment, his eyes cleared. “I would not have handed him off to anyone less.”

“Lestrade would have a heart attack,” John announced with a grin. “Seriously, and Mycroft, too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade has already heard me say so, and Mycroft would not believe you.”

“Speaking of Mycroft,” Aidan began, “is he always so…”

“Overbearing? Manipulative? Controlling? Yes, yes, yes, and more. I have admitted that I was wrong, before—he has not, to my knowledge. He enjoys the challenge of controlling people and politics, I enjoy the challenge of a puzzle, of deductions. Although this one says I am more of a drama queen than anything else.” Sherlock’s nose was wrinkled by the end, and Aidan smirked again at him. 

“The older brother who could never do wrong, huh?” She snorted out a laugh. “Join the club, older siblings have the annoying habit of actually knowing better than us a lot of times. Then again, there’s also a time to just give advice and let them fail. I’m in both camps, I’m afraid. You, John?”

“Older sister,” John answered. “Harry and I don’t talk much, though.”

“Only child,” was Mary’s input. Her eyes told Aidan not to ask about Harry, and Aidan nodded. She wasn’t talking about her own family, no way was she going to tread on someone else’s toes about theirs. Besides, that was connecting, and she couldn’t afford to do that.

Mary clapped a hand to her knees. “So! New to London, then. Are you planning on sticking around long, since you found this place?”

Aidan shrugged. “I really don’t know. I’ll just see how this job goes, I guess. Any recommendations on what to see while I am here? I know my parents would be disappointed if I was in their home country and didn’t hit the must-see places. Seriously, it’d be like sacrilege or something.”

“Westminster Abbey. Definitely go there.”

“Hmm, yes,” John agreed. “And, of course, there’s the British Museum if you can make it. The wax museum is just down the road, too, Madam Tusade’s. Tower of London? I guess those are more touristy places, but that seems to be what you’re looking for. And you shouldn’t explore just London, if you stick around long enough and can manage to afford it.”

“Been to Wales for a bit,” Aidan said, nodding. “I figure in a month or two I’ll try a weekend trip or something back there, or maybe the Cotswolds or Scotland. Whichever is more affordable.” In other words, whichever had a bigger bounty available, but they were not to know that. 

She went for the sandwiches, figuring she ought to eat as long as Sherlock was offering, and took one of the smoked salmon sandwich halves. There were also some cucumber sandwiches available, she saw, but she had never been the biggest fan of those. Still, it had been a while, so she figured she ought to at least try it.

For a while they discussed possible destinations for a pilgrimage tour, then Mary’s mobile rang and she glanced at the caller ID. “Oh, it’s Margaret,” she told them. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. It was splendid meeting you, Aidan.”

“You, too, Mary.” Aidan smiled up at her and waved her on. “Go ahead and take that, I understand.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll be back in a bit, John.” She retreated through the door, and Aidan drained her third cup of tea. 

“I think that should be all I have of that,” she laughed. “I’ll just take this to the kitchen.”

“Oh, we can do that,” John protested. “Can’t we, Sherlock?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She stood up, cup in hand, and snagged one of the cucumber sandwiches to try. “I feel useless if I don’t do something to help as a guest. I’ll just be back in a moment.”

She munched on her snack along the way to the next room, and decided the cucumber was all right. It wasn’t her favorite, but it wasn’t revolting, either, like pickles were. So she finished it off without throwing anything away, and stopped next to the sink with her saucer and cup in hand.

Sherlock’s sink had two sections, so Aidan placed the cup in the right side, which was empty. The left was filled with murky water, and based on the damp towel she figured he had been doing the dishes earlier and had forgotten to release the dishwater. So, using her teaspoon, she lifted up the stopper to let the water drain.

The momentum picked up quickly, she saw, and the motion of the swirling waters immediately caught her eye. _A vortex,_ she identified the chaotic structure, Mycroft Holmes' voice whispering in her ears. Her breath faltered, and, with the look of one hypnotized, she watched the artificial whirlpool for what felt like eternity. Then a speck on the side of the sink caught her gaze, small and dark. It was a tea leaf, clinging just barely to the sink wall, edges tugged by the rapid currents. There it stayed, tenacious in its grip as it held out against the onslaught. And then, from over her shoulder, long fingers pulled her forgotten spoon from her numb grasp and dropped it into the roiling depths.

Aidan jerked away from the sink, unable to calm her racing heart. “I've got to go,” she announced to John, ignoring the departing figure of Sherlock Holmes. 

John set his cup down on a pile of papers. “So soon?”

“I'm sorry.” She avoided his gaze by rubbing her dry hand over her eyes. “I had a late night of work, and that was after a full day of traveling and shopping. I've been out everywhere, it seems, yesterday, and I've run into so many people that I don't know how to keep track of them all. I'm just…overwhelmed, I guess. And tired, more than the tea can help.”

“No need to apologize.” Her housemate’s friend stood from his chair and smiled reassuringly. “You've got work tonight, too, I imagine.”

“No, tonight I get to sleep.” She allowed herself a tentative smile as she met his eyes briefly, and repeated, “I'm sorry.”

“If it helps, apology accepted.” John stepped around the furniture and opened the door to the flat for her. “Get some sleep. As a doctor, I recommend it. Go on, I'll see you around.”

Aidan nodded. “Goodnight, John. Thanks for the tea. Tell Mary I'm sorry I missed her. I’ll…see you later, I guess.”

“You're quite welcome. Pop up anytime, and Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson can give you our address.”

She waved and left, keeping her pace in check as she did her best to not run down the stairs to her flat. She fumbled with the keys a bit at her door, but managed to jam the correct one into the keyhole. It wasn't until she was in her flat, doors locked all the way from the top of the stairs to her bedroom, that she allowed herself to sag against the wall in exhaustion and shattered nerves. A vortex―that was what Mycroft had called his brother. To her, they seemed inescapable.

Stumbling to the bed, bone weary quite suddenly and fighting against the urge to panic unnecessarily, Aidan allowed herself to collapse on top of the duvet in a limp heap. She wondered if there would be any escape from this vortex, the one that was Sherlock Homes. Or if, as Mycroft insinuated, she would be like the tea leaf, doomed to be pushed into the turbulent waters by someone dropping a spoon into her life. What would it take for her to go against all her instincts and what she deemed better judgement, to upset the rhythm she was establishing and push her into this chaos embodied in the form of a six-foot-one form with dark, curly hair and piercing eyes made of pale blue ice? She dreaded to think of what such an event might be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thanks for the kudos! :-)

### Chapter Eight

“You know you blew up his house, right?”

Aidan jerked her head up from inspecting the SIG Sauer she had been given and blinked twice. “Wait, that was _Mycroft Holmes’_ house you were talking about? And I didn’t blow it up!”

Mike laughed at her. “Yes, it was. I can’t believe you hadn’t figured it out yet. I told you I had British government officials complaining to me all day. Why do you think that was, instead of you being bothered while you were recovering? It’s because I didn’t tell him your name.”

The woman carefully set the SIG on her friend’s desk and then buried her face in her hands. “That guy will own my butt when he finds out it was me.”

“Yes, he will,” Mike agreed. “So are you going to tell him?”

“Of course I am,” she grouched. “It’s only right. Hopefully he will understand that I just didn’t have enough time.”

“You put the lives of his staff ahead of whatever he had going on in there, and were injured in the blast because of your dedication. I don’t think anyone can fault you for that.” The older man leaned forward and slid a box towards her. “For you, from the man in question.”

It was with some trepidation that Aidan opened the box, and she frowned when she saw what lay within. “What do I need this for? I already have my Glock and the new P226. This thing is tiny.”

Mike shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I think he expects you to take it with you when his brother eventually drags you out on a case with him. Sherlock would question why you had anything bigger, and this is easier to conceal. Mycroft told me to say that you can inform Sherlock of its origin, and for what purpose it was given to you. When it comes time, of course.”

Aidan swallowed hard. “I don’t want to get dragged out on cases,” she protested. Fingers numb, she closed the box with a loud clap. “I don’t want this.”

Her friend, the traitor, shoved it back at her. “You will need it. By all that is holy, Mallory, you _live in a house_ with the man! You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I’ve successfully managed to do so for four days,” she argued back.

“Four days is nothing. The man is related to Mycroft Holmes. He’s _letting_ you avoid him, and when he wants to find you he will. And I know you, you won’t be able to say no in the end. Take the box, gun and all, and deal with it.” He waved a hand in the air, a dismissive gesture. “You’re twenty-five, well able to figure out how to be an adult. Are you afraid he’ll figure you out?”

She was letting herself give in. Her fingers brushed the box, and she didn’t recoil. “Yes. Kind of.”

“No, that’s not it.” Mike leaned forward again. “Don’t lie to me, Aidan. You owe me more than that.”

Aidan plopped down in the chair set up on her side of the desk and slouched. “That’s exactly it.”

“What?”

“Connections.” She flicked at a dust bunny gathering on the end of the arm. “You know what I’m like. I’m fine with getting to know you, being your friend. Because you know how to keep in touch with me discreetly, and you don’t push me to keep in touch with you. Because you know I will be back.”

“You haven’t made friends anywhere else you’ve gone, have you?”

Aidan thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “Just here. You and Luke, though Luke was a fifteen year old kid when I found him. And I knew him, but I never really let him in. He doesn’t even know my name.”

“Hmm.” Mike crossed his arms on the desk. “It sounds lonely.”

“It is.” Aidan heaved a sigh. “So there’s you, and Luke is definitely attached to me, and his pal Benson is tagging along now. And then there’s Sam and the others, but I can’t let them know where I am or this will all be pointless. And my family, no telling where they got hidden away.”

“Ever think of moving here after it’s all over?”

“I can’t afford to think of ‘after’ yet.”

“Okay.” Quiet acceptance. “Just don’t stop yourself from getting close because you’re afraid of the after, or the meanwhile, all right? That’s the coward’s way to live.”

Aidan opened her mouth once, twice, and then nodded. “I’ll think about it,” she promised, but even then she didn’t think she’d be accepting Sherlock’s request anytime soon. Well, she’d figure something out.

Mike nudged the box toward her one more time, and she surrendered to machinations of manipulative old bastards. With a weak smile, she picked up her two new sidearms, and the shoulder holster that went with the P226, and left.

. . . ... . . .

_“Hello, Ms. Mallory. I trust London is treating you well.”_

“Mycroft, you of all people would know if it wasn’t.” Aidan got up from sliding her new baby gun, as she had taken to calling the P238, under her bed. Accessible enough, and it was fine if Sherlock found that one. She wasn’t sure what to do about her Glock or her other SIG, though… The shoulder holster held two, fortunately, so she didn’t think she would have to choose which one to carry. Sherlock would instantly find any new alterations to the apartment, of course, so it was likely she’d be stowing both in her closet, above the door. She could finagle something with cardboard or plastic and duct tape again, she figured. If there was an emergency, she’d just go for the baby SIG. 

_“Naturally,”_ he agreed, drawing her mind back from her pondering. _“Caught a shoplifter, didn’t you?”_

“It paid for my food and some needed supplies.” She was partly responsible for his house blowing up, she remembered, and tried to keep that in mind so she wouldn’t get impatient with him. “What can I do for you, Mycroft?”

_“Sherlock has got himself a nasty one this time. A butcher, decided he’d rather cut up humans rather than mutton. He’s a bit on the mad side. Shadow Sherlock and John, they’re tracking him down now. I’m sending you a car to take you to them. The driver knows not to let himself be seen. Will you do this?”_

“I promised,” she answered. “When will it get here?”

_“It will be there in one minute.”_

“Got it. Um, I owe you an apology, by the way.”

_“Oh? What for?”_

Aidan grimaced. “Well, I think I do, anyway. I was the Sweeper on the Marsden case.”

There was silence for a good ten seconds, then Mycroft cleared his throat. _“We will discuss this later. Get upstairs, your car will be there soon.”_

“Yes, sir.”

. . . ... . . .

The car dropped her off on a quiet corner on the north side of London. _Around the block, go right,_ her phone told her, and with the tag _M.H._ , she knew immediately who it was from. Making a mental note to save that number later, she jogged quietly to the corner and slipped around it. John and Sherlock were nowhere in sight—except there was the familiar tail of a Belstaff trailing around the next corner, and she unzipped her jacket a little to more easily access her new SIG. It was on the left, she reminded herself, while the Glock she used for Sweeping was on the right. She had used shoulder holsters before, so the harness felt natural, and her habit was to reach with her right for her gun anyway. 

Sherlock and John were not running, thankfully, but instead seemed to be studying the buildings on the other side of the street. Looking for the butcher, she realized. She didn’t know his name, and it was probably better that she didn’t, for the sake of plausible deniability. And then Sherlock pointed to a door, and, after an argument she was unable to hear, John kicked it in.

Aidan heard herself cursing as she moved across the road in a brisk walk that didn’t quite get her there quickly enough for her liking. She fell back into a jog halfway through and stopped just outside the door. Ideally, she should have had a hat, or some sort of mask, but it was too late or that. She would just have to move quietly, and hope that she wasn’t spotted—and especially that nothing went wrong.

Slowly, she eased inside and looked around. It was the front section of an old shop that had closed down some years ago, complete with plywood set up against the front window. It was pretty clean, considering, apart from some toppled cardboard boxes that held yellowing newspapers and twine. And then there was the cool air creeping in from the back room, and she grimaced in her realization. A old butcher shop, of course. Probably a little obvious, but she wasn’t going to complain. 

Based on the temperature of the draft, she guessed it was coming from the freezer, which gave off a soft hum. A low murmur echoed off the walls from the room, and she crept towards it, gun in hand and held close. Without any practice with the thing, she was going to have to be extra careful, and hope that she wouldn’t have to fire. And she might have to, based on the sudden increase in volume. John was barking at somebody, something about a knife—and Sherlock, he was talking, but his voice was drowned out by John and a third voice, and the garbled mixture was difficult to understand. 

The voices reached a crescendo just as she reached the open door of the freezer in the back room. A bang, loud cursing, and she froze. Mycroft was going to kill her.

Regardless of whatever fear she held, however, she knew better than to go rushing into an unknown situation, and eased herself closer to the edge of the doorframe she was currently hidden behind. A quick peek, and she held in a sigh of relief. Sherlock and John were just fine, and the butcher was collapsed on the floor, holding his calf and screaming in pain. Sherlock was already on the phone, no doubt with his friend Lestrade, so she executed a tactical retreat and got the heck out of there.

On the street, she zipped her jacket back up after stowing her SIG and took a moment to lean against the brick facade. A CCTV camera turned her way, and she gave a tired wave. All was well, Mycroft could come get her now. Or could she go home? Doubtful.

Sure enough, a black town car pulled up alongside her, and she slipped in the door as quick as she could. The driver was already pulling away when she blinked up at an inexpressive Mycroft, and she rubbed at her eyes. “Sherlock and John are fine, didn’t even need me. I figure the guy started to rush them, and John shot him in the leg. Scotland Yard will be on its way soon, I think. Is this later?”

“It is,” Mycroft confirmed. “You have a rather poor sense of timing for when these revelations are made, you realize.”

“I suppose I could have waited,” she agreed. “I only just found out today, myself. You know what happened, right?”

“Of course I do.” He sounded offended that she would think otherwise. “Mr. Yates explained quite thoroughly the course of events. The only thing he didn’t reveal was your name, or that you were in the hospital with second-degree burns, a concussion, and broken ribs.”

Aidan leaned back and closed her eyes. “Yeah, that was not a good day.”

“If that were your concept of a good day, Ms. Mallory, I’d be worried about your mental state.” Mycroft watched her pensively. “Why did you reveal this to me?”

“You know exactly why,” she answered, too tired for games. “Besides, you’d have found out eventually, and you are not someone I want to be on their bad side.”

“A very wise assessment. You asked if I knew what happened that day, but I wonder, Ms. Mallory, if you are fully aware, yourself, of what went on.”

Aidan’s eyes came open. “Only what I was a part of. Marsden planted the bomb before I could track him down, and I put my priority on getting everyone out of there before it blew. I was running to tackle Marsden before he could get away when the building exploded. He died, I went to the hospital. I don’t know what you had in there, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“It is, indeed.” Mycroft gave her a bitter smile. “It is ironic, I suppose. Lucas Marsden was a lesser known associate of your Dwayne Alders. I had files on Alders kept in that location, among other pieces of information, and I suspect that it was this Marsden was targeting.”

She felt her blood run cold in her veins, and her heart clenched. “Was this the only repository it was stored in?” 

Mycroft was sympathetic enough to not mention how her voice rasped. “Of course not. However, the other storage sites were hacked and the information deleted. There is one other isolated system that contained the information, and I had that moved and it is yet untouched. But I’ve studied everything in there, particularly the information pertaining to Alders, and I’ve not found anything of import in the past three years.”

“He tends to get paranoid whenever there is any information on him at all,” Aidan told him. “Even just his face being out there makes him jumpy. I might be able to spot something, should you ever want me to take a look. I know him, a bit too well.”

“I will keep this in mind.” The car came to a stop, and Mycroft gestured to 221B which now lay out the door. “I will be in touch, Ms. Mallory. I am uncertain whether this conversation is completely over, yet. Save that number in your phone, it is a direct line to me.” He smiled, but it was a cold expression. “I trust you to keep it to yourself.”

“Naturally,” she answered, borrowing his word, and removed herself from the vehicle.


	9. Chapter 9

### Chapter Nine

Aidan ran a shaking hand through her hair as she stood before the steps, unwilling to go inside yet and chance Mrs. Hudson spotting her in this state. Mycroft’s revelation had left her rattled, and with her adrenaline crashing she was surprised she had been able to hold it together so long.

The black door of 221B almost beckoned her, but she ignored it and turned away. Being alone was not a good plan right now, and she needed practice with the new SIGs. But the baby SIG was under her bed, yet…

With a sigh, she trooped inside and down into her flat, wondering if Mike would be surprised to see her so soon when she showed up to use the shooting range. It only took a few minutes, and then she was back on the street with the wooden box tucked under her arm when a cab pulled up and John stepped out. She was already walking away, and in his haste he didn’t seem to notice her at first. Then she saw him turn, glance toward her as he was in the process of pushing the door open, and raise his hand.

“Aidan, wait!” he called, pulling the door shut again. Aidan slowed, reluctantly, then stopped by the curb, knowing that ignoring him now would make her avoidance of him and Sherlock obvious. Perhaps it was already to the detective; not much got by him, after all. With John, however, it was unclear what he was aware of, or what he was capable of noticing, and she knew better than to underestimate the former soldier.

John came to a halt beside her. “I haven't seen you lately,” he said. “I'm sorry if Sherlock or I offended you somehow.”

“It's not that,” Aidan rushed to assure him. “And you have a much smaller chance of offending anyone than your friend does.” She looked away, toward the street. “I've just been busy,” she lied. “Late evenings at work, and all, and I've been exploring the city so I won't get lost.”

“Oh. Well, you're welcome to pop up or in for tea next time you get a free afternoon, or if you'd like, you could come join me and Mary for lunch sometime.” She hesitated a moment too long in answering, and he sighed, looking as if he'd had a suspicion of his confirmed. “So you are avoiding us.”

“No, no, I-” Her eyes met his, then dropped to the pavement. “Yeah. I suppose I have.”

John scratched at the back of his head. “If you'd rather we keep our distance-”

“It's not- Well, it is, but-” Aidan took a breath and rubbed her hands over her face. She had not meant to ever get into this with anyone again, but she knew the kind man deserved at least part of the truth. She tried to bring to mind what Mike had said to her earlier, but at the moment her head was too much of a mess from what Mycroft had told her.

“I'm scared,” she confessed, voice soft. “You're a good guy, John. I could easily become friends with you. But I'm not going to be here forever, and I could disappear on you without even a goodbye. I don't keep in touch. I can't. Luke and Mike, the only two I’ve gotten to know before? I haven't seen or spoken to them in three years. I pop in and out of the blue, no warning, and I hate it. I can't do that to you, too.”

She watched as his jaw tightened in what was probably resolve or stubbornness. “I can take that chance.”

“I can't.”

“Can't, or won't?” He stared at her for a moment or so, then he looked away. “Was that why you rushed out last week?”

Aidan nodded. “Someone told me that Sherlock Holmes is like a vortex, pulling you into his life whether you like it or not. I didn’t… I don't want that to happen to me.”

“And you came up to tea anyway?”

She shrugged. “I thought maybe I could resist the current, whatever anyone told me about him. I guess when I emptied the sink, I realized the guy was right.”

John's nose wrinkled. “What does that have to do with it?

Aidan pressed her lips together and studied the cracks in the concrete. “When water drains, it makes a vortex. It sounds silly, but…I was watching it, and I realized what's going to happen if I don't keep away. There was a tea leaf in the sink, and it was doing all it could to resist the pull. When Sherlock dropped my spoon into the water, the ripples sucked the leaf in.”

“So you’re afraid of getting sucked in?”

“Yes.” She looked up and finally met his gaze straight on. “And I'm afraid of what could drive me to that.”

Aidan waited, letting that stew around in the man's head for a while. This paid off when he looked and gave her a single, solid nod. “It's your choice, of course. I'll stop inviting you to tea, if it makes you feel better. I won't treat you as a leper, and I'll say hello when I see you, but I won't pressure you to do anything. If you ever decide you do want to be friends, text or knock on either of our doors anytime. I'll do what I can to get Sherlock to keep from pestering you, though no promises on his end. I'm not around as much anymore so he gets by with a lot I'd have called him out on.”

She felt like a load had been lifted off of her shoulders. “Thank you, John. I can't tell you how much that means to me. And I am sorry for avoiding you.”

His lips quirked. “Apology accepted. I'll let you get going now. I don't want you to be late to work.”

Aidan felt doubly guilty for the secret she was hiding, but held her tongue from telling the kind man just what she did for her job. Instead, she nodded. “Thanks, John. I'll see you around.”

Her remark seemed to give him a bit of hope, because he smiled brightly and nodded. “I'll hold you to that. Goodnight.”

She waved, withholding a grimace, and turned away. She hoped Mike was in a listening mood, because she really, really needed to vent.

. . . ... . . .

Mike was in a listening mood, and he dragged her back to the shooting range where she could put holes in targets as she spoke. By the time she relayed the day’s events to him between firings, she had succeeded in getting comfortable with her new sidearms and packed them away feeling a lot better.

Mike reached over and tousled her hair, to her annoyance. “Obviously you’re going to need quite a bit more time than one afternoon to decide if you do want to make more connections. Don’t rush it, whatever you do. Then you’ll really panic. Just ease into spending time with them, if you decide to do that. And hang out with Luke more, the kid worries about you.”

Aidan smoothed down the blonde strands with a frown. “He hardly knows me.”

“You saved his life, Mallory, and he thinks you’re a hero.” Mike put down his ear protectors and removed the clear glasses that protected his eyes from potential shrapnel. “Can you blame him for wanting to feel more important than a simple errand boy?”

That stopped her, and she closed her eyes in self-recrimination. “Can I do nothing right? I get close, he gets hurt; I stay away, he gets hurt. It’s a wonder he didn’t bail on me when I just popped up after three years with a job for him. No ‘you’ve sure grown,’ no chatting and catching up, just a ‘how are you’ and ‘here’s this job, have some money.’ Gosh, I suck.”

Mike went for a full-blown smack to the back of her head this time, NCIS style. Satisfied with her yelp, he crossed his arms and drew himself up to his full height. “That boy is growing up, and he can take care of himself. Are you going to let him?”

Aidan pulled out her phone and stared at the darkened screen. “I don’t want him to have to grow up as fast as I did.”

“He’s eighteen, he’s got to do it sometime. You were eighteen when you decided you want to be an IBI agent under Isaacs, sixteen when you got the invite.”

“And twenty when I became a Sweeper, I know.” And Luke, helping her fight crime at fifteen, and now he was eighteen himself, helping her again at her own request. What did he even want to do with his life? She had heard him mention something about sports once… When he went off to uni, what then? Would she drop him like a used rag in the wash?

Her thumbs moved, making the decision for her. The send bar went blank, and she knew there was no going back.

“Little steps,” Mike advised her, patting her on the shoulder. She nodded in agreement, and decided starting with this would do.

. . . ... . . .

Luke’s phone buzzed at him, and the blonde teen sitting on the floor jerked his left shoulder at it as he concentrated on not dying. “Check that out for me, would ya?” he asked his friend, eyes narrowed at the screen. The white controller in his hands was clutched tight as he maneuvered the directional sticks and mashed the jump button. “No, no, no!” he exclaimed as Benson reached for the small black device from where he sprawled on the couch. “Kill it, you pathetic excuse for a Nord!”

Benson rolled his eyes as he wrapped his fingers around Luke’s phone. “It can’t hear you.”

“Yeah, I know, shut up.” Luke brought the controller up higher, as if that would help, and growled as the dragon’s ice blasted his character backwards. “Man, now I have to start that entire battle over.”

“Could actually help,” Benson pointed out. “You’ve trained with dual swords, not the longsword. You’re low on stats in that area. Hey, you got a text from that lady, Nic.”

“Yeah?” Luke put his controller down and nabbed his phone from his fingers to read the message. “Huh,” he said, leaning back against the middle of the couch. Benson sat up and put his feet down so he could lean over and read it.

“She wants to meet up for coffee sometime?” he asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Luke confirmed. “And see, she doesn’t even want me to hunt down anything. She just…wants to talk.”

Benson frowned in confusion. “Did something happen to her? Is she sick, dying? You said she never wanted to talk.”

Luke tapped out a reply to send. “I guess she does now, and I suppose I’ll find out. Mind if I skip out tomorrow afternoon? We can hang out in the evening if your mom doesn’t want you back at your place.”

Slowly, Benson shook his head. “It’s cool, go ahead. Where you meeting her?”

“Cafe Nero, the one a couple blocks away.” He put the phone down, apparently done with his texting. “I wonder if she’ll explain why she’s been so jumpy this time around.”

“I dunno.” Benson lay back down and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like her,” Luke clarified, restarting from his last save. “You don’t know her.”

“Neither do you,” Benson reminded him, and the blonde shrugged.

“I suppose not. But maybe not for much longer. Hey, did I explore this cave earlier?”

Allowing the change in conversation, the younger teen nodded. “It let you out where the dragon is. This time, stick with what you have, right?”

“Got it, no longsword,” Luke agreed, and descended into the torch-lit caverns of Skyrim.


	10. Chapter 10

“You know, Benson almost wouldn’t let me come alone.”  
  
Aidan picked up her head from reading an article on her phone to smile up at her loyal helper. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s also got good points, if I weren’t too stubborn to listen.”  
  
Luke sat down across the small table from her and shrugged. “I don’t think he knows what to make of you. On one hand he doesn’t know you or trust you, and on the other hand he thinks you’re nuts when you go into a dangerous situation alone.”  
“His mother is a policewoman, of course he’d twitch at that.” Aidan tucked her phone away. “I really don’t blame him. And you, Luke? Do you know what to make of me?”  
  
The teen studied her carefully. “Your hair is blonde this time,” he told her. “It used to be black.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“I almost didn’t recognize you, especially after three years. But I’d never forget your face.”  
  
Aidan shook her head. “I would have done it for anybody. But that doesn’t answer my question. Do you know what to make of me?”  
  
Luke opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. “No. I really don’t.”  
  
“That’s my fault,” she told him, grimacing. “I mean, I knew you for, what, a month?”  
  
“Five weeks,” he agreed.  
  
“Too short a time.” Aidan leaned back in her chair. “I never even really gave you a chance to get to know me. It was all, ‘find me this person,’ and ‘find me that person.’ You volunteered information about yourself, and all I ever told you was an alias.”  
  
Luke was staring at her warily. “ _Are_ you dying?” he blurted out, and she laughed in bitter amusement.  
  
“No, nothing like that. Not yet, anyway. I just have had it forced into my head recently, especially by Mike, how stupid I’ve been to push people away. And I owe you an explanation for certain things, and it’s time you got it.”  
  
With a nod, Luke settled down in his seat and clasped his hands around his coffee cup. “Okay,” he agreed. “What can you tell me?”  
  
“Not my name, not yet,” Aidan warned him. “I trust you with it, but it’s too dangerous for you to know it yet.”  
  
“Who does know it?” Luke didn’t seem offended, but rather looked like he understood, and she felt immensely grateful toward him.  
  
“Mike,” she identified, “and my housemates. But only Mike knows I’m a Sweeper, the others just think I’m a bartender.”  
  
“Seriously? How’d you get away with that lie?”  
  
“Well, I do tend bar a bit,” she argued, “so it’s not a complete lie. Any kind of deception is just as bad, though. I just let them come up with it on their own. And you boys all know me as Nic, which is short for my middle name.”  
  
“Okay.” Luke stewed over that for a bit and drank some of his coffee. “So why is it too dangerous for me to know your name?”  
  
Aidan looked out the window at the shop across the street and sighed. “I’m hiding,” she revealed. “If at all possible, I don’t want my name to get out of London. Because that means I’ll have to run and hide somewhere else, and I _like_ it here.”  
  
“Nic… What are you hiding _from_? What could make you so scared?”  
  
“Everything,” she told him with brutal honesty, then nudged at her own cup of tea that had grown cold. “There’s a man after me. Alders. I testified against him, and he hates me for it. So much so, he’s made it his life’s goal to kill me after he escaped from prison last year, or something like that. I ruined his life, so he wants to ruin mine. And he’s succeeded, but he wants to go further and obliterate it.” Ignoring the lukewarm temperature, she knocked back her tea and wished it would burn like whiskey. “And if he knew you know me, that I care about you in any way, he’d kill you. And I don’t want that to happen, so I try to protect you by not telling you things, because I’m too selfish to let you go entirely.” Her smile was broken and shaky. “You know, I’ve been doing this five years. Five years, and I spend one month here and you’re the kid I latch on to. I think it’s because you were just a year younger than I was when I started on this road. And you reminded me of myself.”  
  
Luke swallowed on air. It looked like he was fighting a lump in his throat, and he massaged a spot right over his heart. “Have you made _any_ friends in all that time?”  
  
“Why is that the part you guys focus on?” Aidan made a face but couldn’t resent him for the question. “Just maintaining friendships with some people in the IBI, really. I’ve been to Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Duluth, Washington, D.C., New York, Pittsburg, Columbus, Detroit, Miami, Orlando, Houston, Helena, Beijing, San Antonio, LA, San Francisco, Mexico City, Las Vegas, Boulder, Tarpon Springs, Chicago, Atlanta, Topeka, Toledo, Akron, Phoenix, Cardiff, and a bunch of other towns and cities I can’’t remember right now. I’ve spent a week there, a month, three, and in each place I never let myself settle.” She rubbed her temples to fight off a headache. “Nowhere but here—the old operator of a Sweeper Club, and a scrappy little fifteen-year-old who wanted to take on the world and be a professional skateboarder and football player.”  
  
A slow smile spread over Luke’s features. “Scrappy, huh?”  
  
“You’ve not gotten much better,” she told him, a tired smirk on her lips.  
  
“Nah, I’ve probably gotten worse.” He studied her for a while longer. “So why tell me all this?”  
  
“Because you help me out, even when I’m a horrible excuse for what a friend could be. And I think you could be a friend, if I let you. And I haven’t let many.”  
  
“Any,” Luke corrected, but held out his hand with an easy grin. “Let’s start over? Luke Spurling, I like parkour and skateboarding, and I want to be a professional sports trainer. I like running around the city hunting clues and tracking down people, too. Or, as I like to say it when Mum asks what I’ve been up to, helping to take out the rubbish and sweep the streets.”  
  
Hesitating at first, Aidan took his hand and shook it firmly. A contract lay before her, and she signed with a steady hand for the lease. “Nic, Sweeper, what you would call a bounty hunter. I like chasing bad guys and throwing them in prison, and I’d actually be interested in learning parkour if you would be willing to teach me once or twice a week. But that’s besides the point.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Luke disagreed. “Nic, as your friend, I would be happy to teach you my craft.”  
  
“And I would be happy to continue employing you, if you’re willing.”  
  
“Immensely.” The boy let go of her hand and sat straight. “I give lessons to my friend, Benson Hurst. You’d be welcome to join us if you’d like.”  
  
“Sure.” Aidan remembered what this was. Hanging out, she called it when she had friends. You spent time with friends, doing what you all liked doing—and in this case, Luke loved parkour, and she actually did want to learn. If she could be a friend with this, then that was a step forward.  
  
Luke nodded happily. “I’ll text you the days and times when I get back with Benson on this. Do you need to get to work?”  
  
He was giving her an out, she realized, letting her slip away before she stretched herself. “I probably should,” she agreed. “I’ll call you if I need some help.”  
“Any time,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

... . . . ...

Was it Forrest Gump who said life was like a box of chocolates? She thought it was, and she supposed he was right in a way. Today had been a truffle day, she decided. Most days were coconut—she hated coconut. But today, definitely a dark chocolate truffle.  
  
A cheap novel Mrs. Hudson had lent her lay open on her stomach, pages facing down, as she watched the moving shadows dance across the top of her wall. It was one of those murder mysteries about the _Murder, She Wrote_ lady, whoever that was. Jessica Fletcher, she thought. Agatha Christie was better, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t have those. Her nephew, Nathan, was borrowing them, instead. So she was left with this, a novel based on a television series. Well, it was decent, she supposed, though she would rather have Tolkien at the moment. She was in a Tolkien mood, and thus didn’t have much patience for mysteries—especially when they were stark reminders of the man upstairs.  
  
Ah, and there went his violin. It was quite soothing, actually, and the floors muffled it enough that it wouldn’t keep her awake if she started to drift off. Which she did, and the book slid to the floor with a forlorn swoop of paper as her eyes closed. Whatever anyone said about Sherlock Holmes, there was never any doubt that he was a excellent violinist, indeed.


	11. Chapter 11

This time, the black car that appeared in front of her didn’t surprise her much. There was no text, no call, but she knew Mycroft had sent it regardless. The woman from the first day was there, and she identified herself as Anthea and passed her a yellow rain slicker, which Aidan put on without question. A steady drizzle was falling, and she would blend in better with this for whatever job Mycroft had for her now.  
  
“Sherlock and John are in Trafalgar Square, in pursuit of an armed gunman. We don’t know if the gunman is working alone or not, and Mr. Holmes would like you to act in the agreed capacity on this case. You have your sidearm?”  
  
Aidan nodded in answer to Anthea’s question and swapped positions for her pistols. Glock back on the right, SIG on the left again. A week had passed since her last bodyguard job, where nothing had actually happened that required her assistance, and she had spent at least two hours of each of those days ensuring she was comfortable with her new weapon. It still didn’t feel as natural to hold it as it did with her Glock, but at least now she could aim with confidence.  
  
She adjusted the yellow slicker over her jacket and started to pull up the hood, but paused when Anthea held out a thin scarf. Yes, that would help, especially if she needed to ditch the yellow. The scarf was a warm green, and almost sheer, and she wrapped it around almost like a hijab, then finally added the hood. Not the greatest disguise, but on such short notice it would do.  
  
The slicker was a size too big, but fit over her jacket well enough that it didn’t constrain her. Smart, she noted, since if Sherlock picked it up he would have a harder time telling who wore it.  
  
Anthea checked her phone. “They are heading toward Piccadilly Circus. If we drop you off on Cockspur, can you catch up?”  
  
“Naturally.” Oh, heavens, she was turning into Mycroft. Shoving the thought away, she pulled a bluetooth earpiece out of her pocket. “Call me,” she instructed. Anthea did so, but kept it on speakerphone so she could keep an eye on the updates. Aidan snapped her fingers by the mic, and the echo came as a tinny version from Anthea’s mobile. Anthea mimicked the act with her phone, and Aidan heard it coming clearly through the earpiece.  
  
“Good to go,” she confirmed. “Drop me close and keep me updated.”  
  
The car came to a stop, and she stepped out onto the pavement. Right, there was Trafalgar to the right… To the left was Piccadilly, then. But where was she supposed to go?  
  
_“Whitcomb,”_ came the woman’s voice in her ear. _“Go down Pall Mall to your left, follow it to the right, and turn left after Jom Makan.”_  
  
Aidan ran, glad for the regular chases she had to participate in as she sprinted down the side street. Jom Makan, a restaurant on the corner she needed to turn, came into view within the minute, and by the middle of the next she had pelted around the bend. A coat flapped in the air ahead, flagging behind a running figure, and she cursed at the distance. She could only just keep up with them at this pace, and she gasped into her earpiece to keep her posted.  
  
_“The gunman is turning,”_ came the next update. _“He’s going toward the gardens. Hurry up.”_  
  
“I am,” she snapped back, doing her best to go even a little faster. She was already pushing herself, and she could only shorten the gap by so much.  
  
_“They’re turning by the cinema. Try to cut them off. Take Orange right, then left on St. Martin’s, it’s the very next street and is just pedestrians.”_  
  
Aidan did as she was told, trusting Mycroft’s people to guide her true. Sure enough, there was the man Sherlock and John were chasing, heading right toward the center of the gardens. Adrenaline surged, and she soon found herself on the edge of the crowd—who had, by the way, just noticed the gun being waved in the air and the shot that went off as the fugitive turned to face his pursuers.  
  
Keeping a wary eye on the events in front of her, the Sweeper melded into the crowd, slipping through the ranks to be near the edge. She wanted a clean escape route if she could get one, but more important was the clean shot on the gunman. “Any sign of a second one?” she asked Anthea.  
  
_“Negative. You know what to do.”_  
  
Yes, she did. Allow John to handle it—but no, his hands were in the air, he didn’t have the opportunity to even draw his pistol now. The gunman was shouting something at them, looked agitated—and Sherlock said something back, something which clearly aggravated whatever rage the gunman was already in. Brilliant, Sherlock, just brilliant.  
  
She came to the edge of the crowd, all the way on the right where she could escape down Irving Street. Her hand slipped into her jacket, and she waited. “Do I get help getting away, too?”  
  
_“Mr. Holmes says he trusts in your abilities. There’s a Tube station to the north, next closest is Piccadilly if you loop around west.”_  
  
“Right, thanks. Because I think I’m going to be needing to make a quick exit really soon here.” The gunman was settling his aim, tensing, and Sherlock and John looked to be getting ready to move, as well. Any action was going to get them killed, so with no other option she pulled out her SIG, aimed quickly, and fired.  
  
Screams. The crowd scattered, the gunman dropped like one of those fainting goats, and all she could do was turn and run. Sherlock was shouting something, but she wasn’t sure if he would immediately pursue or check the status of the man first. John would investigate, so maybe Sherlock would run after her first. But down Irving she went, adrenaline on high output, and then left along the A400.  
  
_“Sherlock is after you,”_ Anthea advised. _“Remember, we cannot extract. Cecil runs to St. Martin’s. You’ll need to lose him if you want to get away.”_  
  
She knew that, but she didn’t have the breath to spare to tell her that, and just kept running. Cecil, St. Martin’s, New Row, Bedford—where she ditched the slicker turning onto Southampton—and then down an alleyway to cut through to Maiden. She got back on Bedford, being informed that Sherlock had not tracked her detour, and then raced toward the Strand as fast as she could. From there…she really wasn’t sure where she ended up, or how long she had run. By the end of it she was set to collapse, and found a stairwell to climb down and hide in so she could recover. Wherever she was, it was a residential neighborhood, one of those streets with full houses stacked three or four stories high, all scrunched together. There was a basement on all of them, and an unlocked gate at the top of one set of stairs let her slip through.  
  
At the bottom, Aidan leaned against the concrete and groaned, mustering up just enough energy to pull off her scarf. This was not how she had planned her day, but when did anything ever go as planned?  
  
Anthea was still on the line. _“We lost track of you. Sherlock is still hunting, but he doesn’t know where you are, as far as we can tell. Want an extract, now?”_  
  
Aidan closed her eyes and focused on breathing. “No,” she gasped, “need to sit. Ask Mycroft to distract, or something. I’ll find a taxi when I can stand.”  
  
_“Acknowledged. We’ll call if he’s getting close.”_  
  
Then the static died off, and she was on her own.  
  
She sat there for forever, it seemed, but at the same time the minutes blended together and she couldn’t tell when one breath turned into a hundred, and only the passing shadows told her the world still spun on. She might have fallen asleep there, despite her better judgement, when a shadow fell over her from overhead.  
  
Startled, Aidan peered upwards. Wait, was that…Benson? He seemed just as shocked as her, and his jaw had fallen open slightly. “What the hell?” he burst out. “Nic?”  
  
Relaxing, the woman nodded, careful not to move her head too quickly. “That’s me,” she answered, her voice raspy and dry.  
  
“Why are you hiding in my stairwell?” he demanded, poking at the gate. Discovering it unlocked, he scowled and almost stormed down the steps. “And did you break in?”  
  
“No.” Aidan closed her eyes and leaned against the cool concrete. “Was open. Hiding.”  
  
“Well, your hiding place sucks.” Benson grabbed her arm and heaved her upwards. Bone weary, Aidan could do nothing else but let him.  


... . . . ...

Benson stared at her from his desk chair, wearing a scowl almost set in stone. “I told Luke you were nuts.”  
  
Rested after a hour’s nap and a good deal of water, Aidan sipped at her refilled glass and smiled despite herself. “I’d agree with you there. No one ever said a Sweeper’s life was safe or easy. Especially when you’re hiding from everyone and everything.”  
  
“I call bull.” The kid leveled a finger at her, brow furrowed. “Luke said you’re on the run from some creeps out to kill you. But if you’re hiding, why the sudden interest in Luke? When did you start giving a crap about him?”  
  
Aidan set her glass down on the nightstand on the foot of the bed. “Did he ever tell you how we met? Him and me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hmm.” She leaned back against the wall, watching the shadows from the street above flit across the wall. “First day I met Luke, he was this scrawny kid with a stutter. Fifteen years old, still growing up, average height for his age instead of the towering beanpole he is now. But boy, could that kid run. Wanted to play football, back then, but never could quite master ball handling. Saved him from some thugs down at the Thames, had knives and wanted some easy sport. They had him cornered, though today he could get out of that tight spot no sweat, just jump right over them. But that little stick figure, just entering that time when you’re neither child nor man, you know what he did?”  
  
Slowly, Benson shook his head. Looking him straight in the eye, Aidan told him, “That little idiot threw a rock in the ringleader’s face and told him that, no, he would not just give up. Luke came _this close_ to really getting a knife in him when I showed up, just in time to witness that. And when it was over, and the police had taken away the thugs I had knocked out, he looked at me and told me that he was going to help me from now on, and if he had to redo that moment he’d still throw that rock. And I saw this girl of sixteen in his eyes, standing on the witness stand, gaze fixed on the agent who had saved her life, because he was the only reason she was even able to walk into that courtroom, let alone testify against the guy who had tried to kill her. This agent saved her life, and when she saved Luke’s she knew— _I_ knew—that I couldn’t turn down that face. I couldn’t look back at him and say no. So I gave him my rules, told him he’d have to stick to them or he was done, and for a month he helped me track down criminals. And then I disappeared, and he learned parkour—because I think he knew I’d be back. That’s the thing about Luke, he doesn’t give up on you. And I think he knew I’d need a friend who could keep himself safe, even if, to protect him, I still don’t tell him things, like my name.”  
  
Benson straightened in his chair. “Luke looks at you like you’re going to disappear any second, or get yourself killed. He doesn’t say it, but you hurt him when you just dropped him like that.”  
  
Aidan closed her eyes. “It was a difficult few days, at the end. A job went south, as far to Antarctica as you can go. I ended up in the hospital, and when I got out again my friend in the IBI sent me straight home to recover. But I say that, and I had time to say goodbye—and I didn’t. I guess I just didn’t like the thought of that finality, or the look he would have in his eyes when I said it.”  
  
The boy across from her was gritting his teeth. “That’s awfully cowardly.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” She took up her glass and drained it, then put it down again. “That’s what Mike said. Not getting close because I’m ‘afraid of the after and the meanwhile,’ or something like that.”  
  
“You think you’re going to die, or something? Or have to run again?”  
  
“Yes.” Aidan sighed. “Alders is after me, and he won’t stop. Being humiliated… He will kill me, if only for that. If he starts sniffing around England, I’m gone. If he finds me, I’m dead, and everyone he finds out I care about. So I either have to keep running or take him out, and I don’t know how I’d do that.”  
  
“Shoot him,” Benson suggested. “He’s at least A-Rank, right?”  
  
“Yeah, he is. But the trick is shooting him before he shoots someone else, and I’m not far enough ahead of him for that.”  
  
“Nic,” the teen said to her, looking at her like she was daft—a common enough expression from Mycroft and Sherlock that to see it on Benson’s face was eerie. “The guy has no idea where you are, right now. If that’s not ahead of him, I don’t know what is.”  
  
Aidan started to answer, paused, and then considered his words. Benson was right, and Mycroft… Mycroft could help her, he was worlds ahead of anybody. But then again, he would probably rather she just ran and took her troubles elsewhere.  
  
She rubbed at her eyes, ignoring the smudges her mascara was probably making on her skin. She would have to think about this, and bring it up with Mycroft next time she spoke to him. When had it become like her to just cut and run? Since a year ago, she figured, after—  
  
Benson looked at the clock. “Mum will be leaving work soon. You should get going so I have time to clean up. She’d thrash me if she knew I’d let a strange adult in the house.”  
  
“With good reason,” Aidan agreed, easing herself off the bed, grabbing her scarf as she was at it. “And…thanks for that. Anyone else’s stairwell, they would have probably just called the police, or shooed me away.”  
  
“Luke trusts you, and he would have not been happy if I’d turned you away.” Benson eyed her for a moment. “I get now why he’s so attached to you, but don’t think for a second I’m going to idolize you like he does.”  
  
“Good, I’d rather you didn’t.” Aidan wrapped the scarf around her neck. “Look out for him, will you? And yourself, too.”  
  
“Of course I will.” Benson led her out of his room and down the hall to the door he had dragged her through. “Just don’t leave without saying goodbye this time, all right?”  
  
“If I can,” she promised, knowing that was the best she would be able to do. She left before Benson could argue the point, and hailed a cab as soon as she reached the street.  


... . . . ...

“Aidan? Is that you?” Mrs. Hudson’s head peeked out of her apartment, and she smiled warmly at her new tenant. “Ah, got a bit of shopping done, I see.”  
  
Aidan put her bags down as she fished for her key in her jacket. “More clothes,” she confirmed. “And I stopped by Farrow and Ball, looked at their samples. There’s this kind of blue-green they have, what do you think of that for the sitting room? I figured we’d best stay away from wallpaper.”  
  
“Oh, that could be nice,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, stepping out from behind her door. “Although with the limited natural lighting, a lighter color might go better.”  
  
“You’re right.” Aidan tapped a finger to her lips. “Well, I don’t have the money to deal with it now, but maybe sometime you and I can go look at the colors together.”  
  
“That would be lovely, dear.” The landlady turned her head to look back into her apartment, then again to Aidan. “I was just about to start making dinner. Would you like to join me? We can even discuss ideas over that.”  
  
“I’d love that.” Aidan had, in truth, only looked online for Farrow & Ball on the way back from Primemark, but it seemed Mrs. Hudson wasn’t able to catch her lie. Her alibi, set up through Mrs. Hudson… She felt a little guilty, using the motherly woman like this, no matter how she spun it in her head, but carried on as she had. Sherlock needed only to ask Mrs. Hudson, and she would tell the man all he wanted to know about his housemate’s activities for the day.  
  
She picked up her bags again and held back a wince. She was still tired, despite the rest she had gotten earlier, and the stairs looked rather formidable at the moment. She would, Aidan decided then and there, take the rest of the night off. The other Sweepers could well take care of things on their own until tomorrow.  
  
An hour later found her in 221A, laughing over spaghetti and meatballs and the color cards on the older woman’s laptop, and at ten o’clock she shuffled back downstairs for an early bedtime. Sherlock never did show up, and Aidan could only imagine what he was up to—and, very determinedly, didn’t.


	12. Chapter 12

The police officer looked tired, but strained a smile to attempt pleasantry. “Just sign here, please, and take this form over to that desk with your ID. You are familiar with the procedure?”  
  
Aidan nodded her answer even as she followed the weary desk officer’s instructions, then put the pen down with a small return smile. “Thanks, though,” she followed the nod, “the layout always seems different between stations.”  
  
She was off on the edge of London this time, having paid an early morning visit to Mike and found that one wanted troublemaker was heard to be loitering off in the south reaches of the city. That was the easy part—next she had to catch the guy. Relying on shop owners and neighborhood kids along the way, she eventually managed to track one Richard Larkson to the Norwood Junction of the London Overground. From there it was a short trip to the nearest police station after the cops were called, and then began the paperwork.  
  
Aidan checked the time on her phone. 9:53pm, and she had yet to even start on her way back to Baker Street. She’d have to catch the Overground over to the Hammersmith & City line via Whitechapel, and take the Tube west to Baker Street. Thankfully it was pretty straightforward, but she guessed that itself would take an hour, at the very least. She also needed to factor in transit time back to the station, probably a ten to fifteen minute drive if she remembered right. If she was out of here in the next twenty, then she could very well make it back before midnight.  
  
A text came in from Mike. Stopping in tonight?  
  
_No,_ she texted back, _changed schedule for the day, heading to bed as soon as I get back. Long day._  
  
_Okay. See you tomorrow?_  
  
_Yeah, schedule me for a shift at the bar if you can. I’ll see what jobs you have there, otherwise._  
  
_Great. Will text hours in the morning._  
  
_Thanks. Goodnight._  
  
Aidan put her phone away again and stepped up to the desk she had been pointed to. “Hey,” she greeted with a smile, and the officer smiled back. His was a bit more genuine, refreshing after her day, and her tense shoulders relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, things would end on a high note.

... . . . ...

The train ran over its track with a loud clatter as the cars passed through the Underground tunnels and hummed. _“Next stop, Baker Street Station,”_ the automated recording informed the scattering of passengers. Aidan picked her head up from the window and watched the lights go past, only paying attention with half an ear to the rest of the message. She didn’t care that Edgeware Road and Paddington stations were coming up next, just that she would soon be back on the crappy old mattress that served as her bed. It was decent, she supposed, but first thing after she got the next large check, she was getting a new one.  
  
_“Mind the gap”_ signaled the moment to leave, and she ditched her day pass in a rubbish bin after passing through the gates to the stairs. It had become habit to throw it away at the the day’s end. She had only been in London for fifteen days, by her count, but each morning or afternoon she bought a ticket, zones one through six, and each night when she came back to Baker Street she threw it away. Mike had asked early on why she didn’t just get an Oyster card, but the look she gave him shut up that line of questioning pretty quick. “Sherlock,” she had answered, and that was that.  
  
Honestly, London didn’t smell that bad, not to her. She breathed deep of the cold night air when she emerged at the top of the steps from the Tube Station, and it jolted her mind just enough that she could cross the street and not get hit by a car. Because she would, given her luck. Came with the name, she supposed—Mallory, from the Old French word “maloret.” She had looked it up once online, out of curiosity, and found it was an old nickname that meant “the unfortunate” or “the unlucky.” Fitting, perhaps too fitting. Whatever the case, Murphy’s Law applied very well to her—lots of things could go wrong in her life, and they definitely did.  
  
Aidan released a huge yawn as she walked down the road to where she knew her door was. Crappy mattress or not, it would feel like heaven after her long day. She was done thinking, she just wanted rest. And with Sherlock in the house, though she had not run into him since the “welcome party” six days before, she wasn’t always sure if she could get it.  
  
The door to 221 came open with a long creak, to her consternation. She’d have to find Mrs. Hudson and ask if she had any WD-40. She hated squeaky doors, they made it more difficult to sneak around. Thankfully, the second one with the glass pane didn’t make a sound, and she heard only the scrape of her key in the lock as she turned it back and removed it. Mrs. Hudson had left a light on for her, a lamp set on an end table on the way to her door, so as she passed she reached out to turn it off.  
  
“You are back rather early.”  
  
Aidan gasped and spun about, her zipped up jacket causing her to reach automatically for her taser—a good deterrent, actually, when trying not to pull her gun. And had she not registered whose voice, exactly, had startled the living daylights out of her, she would have shot the tall detective. “Stop doing that!” she snarled, lowering the defensive weapon. “One of these days I really am going to hurt you.”  
  
“I’ve only done it twice now,” he reminded her, quirking an eyebrow. The shadows cast by the lamp put the angles of his face in sharp relief, and only strengthened as he stepped closer. “You should stop returning overtired, it lowers your awareness and allows this to happen. You completely missed me on the stairs.”  
  
He was right, regardless of how little she liked it, and she felt her movements become aggravated as she shoved the taser back into her cargo pants. “I’m still going to shoot you.”  
  
“Hmm, no, because you’d rather not deal with Scotland Yard or my brother on almost killing me.”  
  
“A taser’s not going to kill you, Sherlock, unless you have some sort of severe health problem, like a heart defect. I think. It’d just hurt, a _lot_.”  
  
“It would be an interesting experiment,” Sherlock said, fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt. “In a controlled environment, of course.”  
  
Aidan gave him a look that conveyed exactly how crazy she thought he was. “If I’m going to shoot you with a taser, it’s not going to be a controlled environment; it’s going to be when you sneak up behind me again.” She waved a hand. “You know I’m armed. Make some noise!”  
  
“If I feel like it.” Which meant no.  
  
“Naturally,” she sighed. She was too tired to deal with him for long. “What did you want, anyway?”  
  
“To ask you about something.” His tone was entirely too nonchalant.  
  
“If you’re asking me to join your network, the answer is still no.”  
  
“For now,” he dismissed her words. “No, this is something different. Something you seem quite hung up on, and I suspect the origin was a little more subtle than I expected.”  
  
Aidan massaged her head, feeling a headache coming on. “What is it?”  
  
“A vortex.”  
  
Her spine stiffened, and she inhaled sharply. He wasn’t supposed to find out about that—but given who she had been talking to, she should have expected this. Half a minute passed, in which neither spoke or moved, then her jaw relaxed and she forced herself to calm. “You’ve been talking to John.”  
  
“Indeed. A perfectly ordinary metaphor, drenched in unoriginality and effused with all the droll humor of a bureaucrat.” Sherlock spat the words as if they left a horrible taste in his mouth like too much marmite. “It positively reeks of my brother.”  
  
“You caught me.” Aidan spread her hands in a “what can you do” fashion. “He did compare your life to a vortex when I met him. When he asked me to spy on you, I told him I don’t want to get involved in your business or life. He called your life a vortex, said people near you get sucked in.”  
  
“I can’t argue with that.” Sherlock stalked even closer, until only a couple feet separated them, and peered down at her with pale eyes which glowed in the lamplight. One side of his face was lit brightly by the lamp to his left now that the angle had changed, the other was cast in sharp dark shadows in a way that reminded her of old horror flicks, though she hadn’t ever really seen one. He just stood there, studying her, for a while, and then he gave her a dangerous smirk. “You’re already sucked in,” he told her triumphantly, eyes alive with the knowledge that he had already won. “The hook is baited, the line is cast, all I need to do is decide on how to reel you in.”  
  
“Fishing metaphor, nice,” she snapped, trying to hide her unease. He was right, even if he didn’t know how—the bodyguard job had her firmly tethered to him, after all.  
  
“Well, all things water…” Sherlock reached out to his left, fingers hovering near the lamp switch. “Mycroft had it wrong, though.”  
  
Aidan swallowed. “Oh?”  
  
“A vortex is a failed analogy. Vortexes fade and die, releasing their captives. I?” He leaned down, meeting her gaze closely. “I never let go.”  
  
A click, and the lamp turned off, plunging the hall into darkness. Soft footsteps led him away and back up the stairs, and Aidan stared into the darkness with a numb mind and burning lungs. _Breathe,_ she reminded herself, and nearly gasped for air as she steadied herself against the wall.  
  
_It is entirely too late to back out now,_ her imagination had Mycroft telling her. _Unless you wish to abandon your two friends—one of which you are slowly improving relations with—and draw Sherlock’s attention to yourself by running._  
  
When had her subconscious turned into Mycroft? It was creepy.  
  
_At least it isn’t Sherlock, hmm?_ And that was Mike, probably a bit more acceptable. _Continue with life and await the inevitable, Mallory._  
  
Aidan felt for her door and navigated her way to unlocking it and going back downstairs without turning on a light, feeling like a lightbulb would somehow make things more real. As if it wasn’t already real enough.  
  
_At least,_ and this was finally her own voice, _he didn’t ask why you were avoiding him. He probably doesn’t even care._  
  
Small comfort, but it let her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, today is a "buy one get one free" sale on chapters! Really, it's because I had a moment and I finally figured out how to correctly do the HTML in one go, so I'm actually able to catch up a bit in the updates.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted to Fanfiction.net under my alias of Falcon's Hyperdrive.


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